The Red Horseman
by Talietzin
Summary: War. War never changes. 50 years after the Locust disappear, still, war is the same. Who is the greatest enemy of mankind? A monster? Or is it... ourselves? Spoilers for GoW2 ending. Read and review please!
1. Prologue

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Prologue**

Fifty years, it had been, since the sinking of the Jacinto Plateau. It had only taken a while more than that for the Locust to seemingly disappear from the face of Sera. Efforts made to find them were futile. It looked as if they had simply packed up and gone. The details had come together in history books proclaiming to the youth the glory of the Coalition of Ordered Governments, and ultimate victory over all that threatened mankind.

The world entered a true golden age. It was one of true, lasting peace. For fifty years, there was no major armed conflict between people. Time was spent rebuilding lives and the world. Much had been destroyed in the conflicts of centuries past, all the way back to the Pendulum Wars and the wars before that.

For as long as they had existed, mankind had been fighting. Fighting to survive. Fighting for profit. Fighting over disputes. Fighting just for the sake of fighting.

For once in such a long time, they finally gathered the balls to put down their weapons and exchange them for tools. These tools were meant to create new life; to support themselves and each other. Now without anyone to fight over plentiful Imulsion with, the COG began to use this, among other resources to build the human race from scratch.

Economic restructuring and restoration of cities had been put into action. After fifty years of continuous effort and accelerated progress in all fields, the world had advanced much and was on the road to recovery. Greenery and beauty had returned to the landscape. Animals now roamed the wild again. Towns and cities came into being faster than ever before. Population had been increasing at such a rate that it was near-impossible to produce any surplus to stockpile. With advances in medical technology, the world population ballooned from mere millions to a whopping one billion in just five decades!

At some point, the rate of population increase peaked and stopped increasing. Now babies were being produced at a constant rate, instead of the accelerated rate a few years ago. Just like everything else – technological development, economic growth, overall health of the people, and crime rates.

Politics had reached fever pitch as well. Things all over the world were happening at a rate never before seen in the history of mankind. Political parties within the COG itself were vying for dominance. Chairman Prescott had long since passed away, and another man had come to take his place. Given the unstable state of the world at that time, it was commonly seen as unwise to fight him for the position of Chairman, and so elections were held when the time came for a new leader to take over. One of the senior political figures was elected to become Chairman.

A decade later – just before the next round of elections – his decapitated body was found floating down a river in the new capital city of Geláre. It was speculated that someone may have been pissed off that he decided to name the city after an ancient brand of ice cream.

And thus, the fighting began. Politicians backstabbed, lied and cheated their way up the ladder. They promoted themselves to win public favour and fought for the Chairman's seat.

Many groups had been biding their time for just such an occasion. This was perfect. While the iron was still hot, new uniforms and tags were issued. Weapon caches were stolen and so were whole shipments of vehicles and supplies. Imulsion pipelines were seized and entire cities were turned into military garrisons.

The Soviet Socialist Republic of Svoboda was among them. Its name was derived from an ancient language, where "soviet" referred to a workers' council. "Svoboda" carried the meaning of "Liberty".

They were originally a political fringe group promoting a utopian society, where men were equal in status and there would be no more fighting over position and possessions. Everything belonged to the people and to the state. Years of campaigning had won over hardcore supporters, and the revolution spread. Other groups surfaced from the darkest depths of each nation, laying claim to vast amounts of territory while the COG were confused.

A fledgling union of small socialist republics was thus formed. Political upheaval was everywhere.

Until one man took power.

Anton Schmidt, he was called. Anthony Smith. It sounded like any other name, but there was a certain charisma to this man. It was not only his good looks and oratory skill, but the way he carried himself as a politician. He led the way with a will of iron. He lived his life as if nothing would ever stop him from achieving his goals, and there were many who would follow such a man to the depths of Hell and back.

His first order in office was to crack down on all such political groups and breakaway republics. He would not have anyone disrupting the peace that they had fought so hard to secure. Chairman Schmidt wanted absolute power. The world was already one fifty years ago. Prescott had power that many could only dream about – he had absolute control over the entire world. It was his empire, so to speak. Now that the world was breaking away, Schmidt could not bear to see the work of his predecessors go to waste.

COG forces were mobilised to quell the unrest. Initially, Schmidt's plans worked as he wanted them to. Resistance faded quickly; many of these groups were not well-armed and could not fight against trained warriors.

Schmidt made one fatal mistake. He did not imprison these men, and instead ordered them to be sent as test subjects for new chemical and biological weapons. He treated his enemies as if they were pigs, underestimating them first, humiliating them second. His lust for power led to insecurity. Insecurity led to paranoia. Paranoia resulted in oppression of the people's civil rights and liberties…

And so the people united. Oppressed for far too long, many decided that they would rather fight for their freedom to live as they wished and believe in what they wanted to, instead of living under such a terrible system of government.

Boris Kalinin, the leader of Svoboda, one of the few countries fighting with success against the COG oppressors, offered safe haven to refugees, weapons for those intent on revenge, food for the hungry, and a place to belong for the homeless and outcast.

And with that, the conflict began. Refugees began to flood into Svoboda. Realising that it had more than it could handle, it quickly roped in smaller groups and fledgling republics, promising a brighter future for all.

Together, they formed the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Their blood-red banner flew high across the lands, a burning torch painted in gold on it. It represented their burning desire for freedom, and willingness to set everything in their path aflame in order to achieve their goals.

Once more, the Red Horseman had come to pay a visit to mankind.

Once more, arms were taken up in the defence of self, of beliefs, and of freedom.

Once more, war had come upon the people of Sera.


	2. And So It Begins

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 01**

"We cannot use the Hammer of Dawn on such a massive scale, Sir!" an excited General Hoffman exclaimed. He was the nephew of Colonel Victor Hoffman, one of the commanders of COG forces during the war. Emergence Day had changed the face of the already scarred planet Sera. "It's… It's inhumane! The people will not stand for this!"

"Then let them die along with the traitors! Let the communist pigs die!" snapped Schmidt, bashing the table with the base of his fist. "This is absurd. We have such powerful weapons and we can't use them to obliterate our enemies?"

"Mein Fuhrer, you must remember that many of our people have relatives on the other side. There are also those who do not appreciate the use of weapons of mass destruction against other humans. The Locust were a different matter altogether. These are humans we're talking about here."

"Fine. Up the security at the ground control installations, and hand out more of the laser designators. We will use every advantage we have. Develop failsafe systems for the Hammer of Dawn. I will not have the enemy capturing our technology and using it against us like we did against the UIR during the Pendulum Wars." Schmidt breathed in deep, gritting his teeth. He was prone to anger, especially when he could not realise the ideas he had in his head.

"At once, Sir," acknowledged Hoffman. He gestured to one of his subordinates, who promptly left the room to make the necessary phone calls. "Now, Sir, if you please." He stretched his arm out towards the massive screen behind the Fuhrer's back. It was a map of the world, with demarcations of territory held by COG, USSR and independent factions.

On the left side of the map, marked in blue, was mostly COG-held territory, covering a large area of mountains, forests and plains. COG possessed more land then all the rebels combined, but they were not about to become overconfident. Many leaders had made that mistake before, and such a mistake was not about to be repeated.

"At present, we have engaged the USSR – marked in red – the entirety of which is located to the north, over the mountain ranges. The 15th Mountain Division has launched a pre-emptive assault to capture their mountain outposts. They have air support and armoured troop carriers, and a Hammer of Dawn satellite will orbit over their location momentarily." Hoffman cleared his throat as he pointed toward the eastern end of the continent.

"To the east, the newly formed so-called Democratic Republic of Tiper – marked here in yellow – has launched an attack on one of our outposts and is quickly gaining ground. We have assigned the Fourth Army to spearhead military operations in that area and expect to obliterate them within a few days. The third major faction, simply known as the People's Republic, did not formally declare independence. They have control of the southwest sectors of the continent, which are lower-lying but also threaten all our ports.

Though he said so of the People's Republic, it was the same for all rebelling factions. None of them could really call themselves a country. The infrastructure and everything with which they were working had been stolen or indirectly given by the COG. These bastards definitely knew how to get things done. There were thousands of reports of missing weapons caches and supply convoys. Whole tank platoons, unassembled helicopters and factories had been stolen!

This was absolutely ridiculous. They were using COG equipment against COG troops. To his mind, it was reminiscent like the age-old story of the impenetrable shield and the all-penetrating spear.

"All right," acknowledged Schmidt, tapping the tips of his index fingers and crossing the rest of his fingers in frustration. "This is a two-front war. And we all know that no two-fronted conflict ended in victory for the loner."

"Correct, mein Fuhrer. But remember, we are not alone. We are the Coalition of Ordered Governments. Our Gears may hail from different places, but we are one. Without any one of us, the whole order will break down," reassured Hoffman. The map flashed once and disappeared, and then reappeared with an update. "Ah. Our Gears have encountered the enemy at Mount Haag."

**Mount Haag**

Cold, biting wind blew past his bare face as Kolya Ivanovich peered out over the edge of the cliff, down the steep mountainside. How anyone could even think of coming up here just to fight, he did not know. He simply felt that it was inconceivable. The mountain was steep and freezing cold, even in an armoured power suit with an artificial environment within it.

"Mikhail!" hissed Kolya. He raised his left arm and beckoned the younger man over. "Hand me your binoculars." He did as instructed, handing the device to Kolya, who quickly put it in front of his eyes and peered through it. He saw vehicles moving up the road on the hillside, and observed several King Raven II transport-gunships rising through the fog. All of them had COG insignia on them, mostly visible despite the snow plastered onto their hulls. "Oh, shit! Sound the alarm! Enemy attack!"

Kolya dashed away from his position at the cliff, pulling Mikhail along. They headed immediately to the outpost wall, dashing up the staircase and manning the machineguns. Kolya quickly opened a communications channel to the control centre assigned to the mountain division. "Control, Quiver Six reporting enemy activity on the mountainside. They are advancing on our position!"

"Roger, Quiver Six. You are cleared to engage. Process any prisoners you may capture. They may have vital information. Anyone who captures a corporal or man of a higher rank will be recommended for promotion. Control out."

Kolya breathed deep, watching carefully for enemies as he made another transmission. "Mortar groups one and two, fire on the mountainside when ready. Adjust for wind, left 100. Range, 400. Open fire!" In half a minute, the thumping of mortar shells popping out of their tubes could be heard. Bombardment had commenced.

Every few seconds, each mortar could launch another shell. That made a total of roughly 360 shells every minute, each shell splitting into eight projectiles with the strength of a high-explosive grenade. From here he could not see where the shells were falling, but there were fortified observation posts down there to spot for the mortar crews. He was just curious when he spotted them.

In mere moments the place had gone to hell. The world vibrated beneath his feet as dozens upon dozens of explosions went off on the road leading uphill. This was too easy. And that was precisely what worried Kolya.

"Mikhail. You are my subordinate and you will do exactly what I tell you to, you understand?"

"Yeah," he acknowledged with a few nods. He was surprised by the sudden question. "What's this about?"

"Nothing. Just be sure to do whatever you are instructed to," said Kolya. A few tense moments passed as the mortars continued to shell the mountainside. "This is going too easy… Something's wrong."

As if on cue, a deafening explosion rang out loud. The platform was violently shaken and Kolya fell flat on his rear. "Shit!" A pillar of thick, grey and black smoke rose and dissipated, leaving a crater in the ground and throwing up clumps of snow and dirt. They heard a loud whistling, and again the ground was violently shaken in multiple directions.

"Long-range artillery! They're shelling us!" exclaimed one soldier, keeping one hand on his helmet and the other holding onto his Lancer Mk. II rifle. "Where the hell is our air support?"

"We don't _have_ any air support!" snapped Kolya as he got back on the machinegun. A familiar, constant, beating and whooshing sent chills down Kolya's spine. He knew exactly what was coming and pulled the trigger, spinning the barrels of the turret. The very instant he saw snow being swept away from the surface, he knew what was coming. "Raven!" A helicopter rose into view from the cliff face, spewing hot lead and rockets. At the same time, Kolya was returning the favour. Dozens of spent shell casings were ejected to his left as tracer rounds found their way into the King Raven's wings, shredding its weapons.

Ropes went out the side of the Raven, and four Gears promptly slid down them. Their weapons were slung across their bodies, ready for immediate combat. Kolya continued firing at the Raven, putting several more bullets into its tail rotor assembly, destroying it and sending it into an uncontrollable spin.

He did not even take the time to notice it crashing to the ground as the Gears took cover behind boulders in front of the outpost. Several other "Reds" – so-called because of their red insignia and red banners – opened fire with their Lancers.

The Lancer was a tried and true weapon that no soldier would go to war without. High rate of fire, improved damage over the previous design, good magazine size and the deadly chainsaw bayonet was often all you would need. Of course, there were those who preferred the reverse-engineered Hammerburst Assault Rifle procured from the Locusts, but the dependable Lancer was the most common, hardy and reliable. It was like an old friend to many.

Streams of bullets raced through the air at their intended targets, pinning the four men behind the rocks. Another great explosion rocked the area, but it was not nearly as frightening as the first time it hit. That one had taken them by surprise.

"Mikhail! Throw a grenade!" ordered Kolya as he redirected the machinegun and opened fire on the now-suppressed squad that had been dropped in. "Mortar teams, adjust range, 100 metres. The enemy is closing in on our position!"

Mikhail quickly pulled from his belt the grenade, grabbing hold of its handle and swinging it around and around to gain momentum. As it approached the bottom of its spin, he flicked his wrist to the left, sending the grenade over the wall and into the snow.

"Grenade! Grenade!" shouted one of them. The other jumped onto it and it exploded a moment later, shredding his body into gory little bits and pieces that painted the snow red with his blood. His heroic act of sacrifice would only delay the inevitable.

Mortar shells went off overhead, splitting into smaller shells that detonated on impact. This effectively cleared the three fools out, turning them into spare ribs and breast meat. Kolya quickly reloaded the machinegun, preparing for the next wave. This was only the tip of the iceberg; he was sure of that.

And he hated it when he was right. Very quickly an armoured personnel carrier came up the road, making the left turn and deploying smoke grenades. The gun ports spewed bullets at a high rate of fire, tearing apart parts of the outpost wall. The artillery shelling around them intensified. Every second, two – perhaps three, maybe even four – shells would punish them with fire.

Screams came from all around. This one sounded quite feral, and loud. He was thrashing left and right, his spine ramrod straight. "MEDIC!!" shouted another as he dragged the wounded, legless man to safety. "We need a fucking medic!" Two trails of blood were left as the screaming young gun observed that he could walk no more. "I dunno how long you're gonna live but whatever you do, keep that gun pointed at the gate!" He dropped a full magazine of ammunition next to the young man as a medic came to tend to him, returning to his position.

A great explosion tore open the wall of the outpost. Mikhail looked below and saw a COG Gear coming. He revved his chainsaw, dropping off the platform and onto him. He dug the weapon deep into his back, cutting down hard like he was trained to. He was not about to get killed because his chainsaw got stuck in someone's armour.

"Enemy infantry!" he shouted as he pulled the chainsaw out of poor sod's back. His armour was stained with blood, as was the chainsaw. He quickly stepped away from the body through the smoke, ducking low to avoid taking shots. Gunfire poured to and fro; he was not about to be killed by friendly or enemy fire.

"What are you doing? Fire your weapon!" demanded Kolya as he rolled behind a crate stuffed full of scrap metal, debris and empty ammunition magazines. They did well in stopping small arms fire from penetrating. He rose from cover, firing on the COG infantry coming in through the hole in the wall. Some had already taken cover behind the crates and were laying cover fire for their reinforcements. "Get down from there!"

It was too late. A King Raven II opened fire on one of the machineguns and tore its user apart, ripping off his head and right arm. The limp body fell onto the platform, blood gushing out and dripping onto a disgusted COG soldier below.

"Fire! Keep firing!" instructed Kolya as he reloaded his weapon. "This is where we make our stand! They will not get through!" He rose from cover and fired a long burst, putting one of the larger Gears down. He called out to the mortar teams. "Mikhail! Get out of here!"

"What? No! I will not leave you behind!" insisted Mikhail as Kolya grabbed him by the arm.

"Understand this, Mikhail. You are still young, and we have yet to win. This war is only just beginning. You must see it through to the end. There is more for you to do than to die here like a pig. Now go!" Kolya pulled Mikhail forward, lugging the average-sized man along as he went. He pushed him down the steps dug into the hillside, and thrust the tag around his neck into Mikhail's hand. "Go back! Find Oleg Ivanovich and give it to him." With that, he returned to the battle, guns blazing.

Mikhail hurried down the slope, to the next position. "Control! This is Quiver Three. The outpost is being overrun. They are too many and we are too few! We need support, over!"

"Roger that, Quiver Three."

"Control, this is Quiver Six. Do you read?" Gunfire could be heard over the communications set, drowning out his voice.

"Roger, Quiver Six. Go ahead."

"Concentrate fire on the left flank! They are flanking us!" shouted Kolya, directing his men with his left arm. He let fly a short burst and turned a man's face into Swiss cheese. "Control, we are outnumbered, certainly outgunned and we are taking heavy fire. Mortar crews are out of mortar rounds and joining the firefight. Requesting artillery support!"

Mikhail continued running along, periodically looking back at the top of the mountain. Smoke was rising from it, and there were explosions going off all around the mountain ranges.

"Confirmed. Fire mission is ready. Coordinates?"

"Drop it right on top of us," replied Kolya. "Shit." He tapped his magazine twice and pulled back the charging handle. "Stupid recycled piece of shit rifle keeps jamming." He fired again and again at the enemy forces. There were four to his left and four on the right. More were outside, firing from behind cover. Overhead was a King Raven, pouring hot lead and rockets onto their position. There were about ten of them, including the man without legs, but they were not going to last. There was simply too much to handle.

"Are you certain?"

"Do I sound like I'm fucking kidding? Do it now! We cannot let them capture it!"

"Shit. Don't do this, Kolya!" said Mikhail, slowing down to catch a deep breath. He was almost at the next bunker.

"Shut up, Mikhail. I'm already dead, remember? Do it, Control."

"Affirmative. Fire mission complete. You've done us a great service, Kolya."

"You too." Bullets ricocheted off his helmet and the crate he was hiding behind. Two more men took multiple shots to the chest, breaking through the armour and pushing right through their lungs. "I only wish I could take more of them with me. It was an honour to serve alongside you." He pulled the charging handle on his assault rifle. "Gentlemen! Start your engines!" He revved his chainsaw. "For the Motherland!!" He shouted at the top of his voice, sending a hail of bullets over their heads as he charged out from behind cover. The rest of his men followed suit, some jumping blindly into the crossfire and getting themselves killed.

"Die, fascist pig!" Kolya screamed, dropping the running chainsaw onto his victim's neck and cutting right through it. He grabbed hold of the weapon and emptied his magazine into the next one, before taking two bursts to the chest. He froze for a moment – and fell to his knees.

He looked skyward, and almost smiled.

A second later, volleys of shells impacted the outpost. The explosions threw up body parts, soil, blood and guts. A great tower of smoke formed as the third and final salvo hit the ground, leaving more craters in one spot than they had previously seen in one battle.

Mikhail looked back and he was in awe. The outpost that once stood at the top of the mountain no longer existed. "Shit," he cursed under his breath as he approached the bunker. "The outpost has been overrun; this position is no longer safe!"

"Yes, comrade, we heard! We're uploading all our data to Control before we leave. You go on ahead!"

Mikhail nodded and continued down the hill. No sooner had he taken three steps than he was thrown off his feet and into the snow face-first. "What the hell…?" He rose to his feet and looked around. The bunker he had just left was in flames. Hurriedly, he stumbled over to the bunker to check for survivors. Then he wondered what the hell he was doing back there.

The place was in shambles. The roof had caved in and the bunker was buried under itself and the soil. A few body parts were strewn about the place, along with broken computers and other equipment. He knew he had to get out of here, and fast.

*****

"Humm. Rather than be taken prisoner or surrender they called an artillery strike on themselves and on our men… Bold move. I respect that," said Sergeant Lucas Mancini to his men. "Why don't we have such men on our side?"

He did not expect an answer; he was not asking any one person in particular. He observed as one survivor dragged himself across the snow, leaving a trail of blood. He had lost one leg, and was bleeding quite profusely.

Amused, Lucas stepped forward. He watched the man reach what remained of the outpost ammunition store's wall, and prop himself up against it. The poor bastard looked like he was about to die, breathing in and out quickly and deeply. He reached behind his back, and pulled out a pistol. His left arm rose, bringing the weapon to bear on Lucas.

Without hesitation, Lucas took a step forward to the right, turning his body left as a round was squeezed off. It zipped by his face as he gripped his attacker's wrist with his left hand, and wrapped his right arm around the man's left arm, grabbing onto his own left wrist. He tucked it in close to his chest and twisted to the right, pointing the weapon right back in his face.

"… Ju… Jujutsu…" he muttered under his breath against the pain in his overextended upper arm.

"That's right. You seem pretty well-learned," commented Lucas. "What is your name?"

"I don't have to answer you, fascist pig."

"No matter. You're about to die anyway. You called artillery on yourself… bold move," complimented Lucas. "What would drive a man to do such a thing; to put himself and his comrades in such a life-threatening position? You enjoy playing hero, don't you?"

"You would never understand. My family line has seen more war in the past two centuries than I care to think about. We would rather die than be thrown into your concentration camps for 'war criminals' and 'political dissidents'," snapped Kolya, taking in a deep breath. "If you want to kill me, just kill me."

"No. No, I will not." Lucas stood up, removing the weapon from Kolya's hand. He ejected the magazine, leaving one round in the chamber. He stuffed the magazine into a pouch on his belt. "You have one round. I suggest you make good use of it." He dropped the pistol in the snow and stepped away, directing his men into battle. The idea was to let him euthanize himself and save himself from the suffering.

"Die!" shouted Kolya, on his knee and left arm. The pistol was in his right hand, aimed right at Lucas. "The Motherland welcomes you!" Less than a second later, two Lancers riddled him with holes. His body, gurgling blood, struggling still to survive, tensed up for just a moment. His eyes shot open like never before, and he dropped the pistol in the snow. White crystals soon became red with his blood. His body lay there, colouring the snow red while COG vehicles pushed forward. For some, the war was already over. They could rest in peace – or pieces – with the hope of victory fresh in their minds. But this war was far from over.

It had only begun.


	3. A Winter Wonderland

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 02**

"Do not delay! We attack now!" shouted an officer, directing his men uphill. The falling snow blanketed the land in white, thick white clouds hanging high over the land. "Hurry up! We must attack now, before they are ready!"

From miles behind them to the north, artillery batteries boomed deep and loud like the gigantic battle drums of old. Volley after volley of large-calibre high-explosive shells cruised through the foggy air, drawing a translucent white line of condensation across the sky and into the side of the snow-covered mountain now riddled with craters.

It was modern war doctrine. In fact, it was common sense. They had gotten complacent and not expected a full-on effort by the COG to assault the mountain. Upon hearing of it, they had quickly prepared troops for combat, many of whom were now well on their way up the mountain.

The shelling of the mountain would give the enemy no time to prepare a defence, and attacking immediately would give them no rest either. This was a common assessment, but very mistaken indeed.

The COG forces were not intending to defend the mountain. They had punched a hole through the defence, and were getting as many light attack vehicles and infantry as they could over to the other side, to spearhead the operation and regain control of the mountain passes. The valley was the only highway through the mountain range, and control of it was vital if they wanted to bring supplies and troops across.

"Move, men! Move! Up the mountain! They will not take another step!" Motivational speeches such as these were not uncommon. Centuries ago, men they called "commissar" had carried banners and loudhailers to war, using their voices to encourage their men onward, and their pistols to push them forward. "Halt! Who goes there?" The officer raised his rifle and fired a burst.

The bullets cracked overhead, shredding a tree branch. "Shit! This is Quiver Three, hold your fire!"

"Roger, Quiver Three. What are you doing here? The enemy is up the mountain!"

"Squad leader's orders. I must leave and find Oleg Ivanovich," replied Mikhail, catching his breath with his hands on his rifle, aimed uphill. He had come a long way down the mountain, and he was not about to trudge through all the snow, ice and soil again. If anything, he wanted to encourage them to leave.

"Fine. We could use another gun, but orders are orders. Go, comrade. We will cover you. Give our regards to Commissar Ivanovich in Svobodny Novgorod, the Free New City." He raised his left arm, gesturing for his platoon to follow him. "In formation, people. Move!"

Mikhail got on his feet and started running again. He wanted to reach the base at the bottom before the snow and wind got any stronger. These men were crazy to fight on the mountain in such weather! The fog was getting thicker, limiting visibility. He suspected that razorhail might come soon. He had seen razorhail slash people into bite-sized chunks before, and shuddered at the very thought of it.

At the same time, he was thankful. In areas prone to razorhail, trenches were not dug. It was impractical to dig deep and fortify a position only to have the trenches turn into stagnant rivers of blood, guts and dung. Not having to dig trenches meant that he could save some energy. He much preferred lifting things for construction work to digging in the rock-hard, frozen soil.

Picking up some speed, he reached the base in another half an hour. More platoons of troops were making their way up the mountain, some in armoured troop carriers. He saw two King Raven II aircraft making their way up as well. At that altitude, it was nearly impossible to hover. The pilot of the King Raven that dropped those men there certainly had a lot of skill.

Hurrying into the compound with his rifle in hand, Mikhail searched for a transport that he could use. Whether it was a truck or a small car, as long as it was a covered transport, he wanted to use it.

"Control, I need to get to Svobodny Novgorod. Is there-"

"Already on it!" a chirpy female voice responded. It sounded very unfamiliar, over the gunfire and incessant explosions. "Ooh, looks like you're in luck! There's a supply convoy about to arrive at your location. They'll be heading back to the train station to pick up more supplies immediately. Tag along with them."

"Okay… And who might you be? You're not the Control operator I was talking to earlier."

"Oh, Yelena was ordered to get rest. I'm Katrina, at your service!" The girl seemed to give off an aura of cheer and had an uncommon energy in her voice for this violent time of war.

"All right," acknowledged Mikhail, raising his eyebrows and adjusting his hat. The traditional winter hat, made of black rabbit fur, was a gift from Kolya. His twenty-third birthday had just passed last week.

It was originally Kolya's own, and he had brought it along just in case his cheap helmet got lost. Preferring a wider field of vision, Kolya had had his helmet modified. The portion covering the face was cut away, including the air filters. Anything obstructing his view in any way had to go.

He would miss the poor bastard. He was a good, brave man. He put Kolya's tag around his neck, and waited for the convoy to arrive.

"Mikhail, if I catch you flirting with my staff again while on duty, I'm going to press charges – you're going straight back into duty in a penal battalion," warned one of the heads of the control centre. "But… Whatever you do while off-duty in a dark room is none of my business."

"Sir, stop it, you're making me blush!" She giggled for a moment, and then cut the transmission. Mikhail's brows came together and his neck drew backwards, and he scratched the back of his neck. He was unsure how to react, and quietly laughed to himself just as the vehicles arrived through the open gate. He hurried towards one of them.

"Comrade! I need a ride to the train station; I'm heading to Svobodny Novgorod!" shouted Mikhail, the cold wind sweeping past his face. He pressed the ear flaps of his hat down to keep his hat on his head and his ears warm.

"All right, unpack the goods, help us load the wounded and any junk and parts, then hop on!" After an hour or so, they quickly squeezed into the infantry fighting vehicle that they had used to transport the supplies and reinforcements. Now it was fulfilling its secondary role, evacuating casualties from the battle and returning to collect more supplies and men to bring to the front.

"You know, the weather's like cold hell out here," commented the driver, looking left and right as he started the engine. Running over another soldier was the last thing he wanted to do. It meant another body or casualty to carry in the back, which meant more work. "I've got no damned idea how the hell you people can be fighting on top of a mountain in this shit."

"Are you kidding? It's just the start of winter. It gets colder later on," Mikhail replied, resting the Lancer's butt on the floor and holding it by the barrel. He smiled to himself. He had lived in these parts all his life, and he knew the climate quite well. His stack of winter coats at home was proof enough of it. It was his favourite season, because he loved to dress well with all sorts of fancy coats. Now he had a nice fur hat to go along with them.

The weather was worsening. Soon, air support sorties would be unavailable, partly due to the coming razorhail, but mainly because of the thickening fog and increasing snowfall. Soon enough they would be fighting nearly blind on the ground. Air sorties would be pointless by then.

Mikhail touched Kolya's tag. It was a bright red star with a bright golden border, hanging from a chain. It had information on it such as his blood type, his identification number, full name and even date of birth. The vehicle hit a bump, jolting him from his trance for a moment. "Bear with it; we'll be there soon. Hate these bumps in the road."

Mikhail smiled again, letting go of the tag and leaning against the hull of the vehicle, shutting his eyes. Every good soldier knew that when you had the chance to relax, you took it up and rested. Nobody knew when they would go the next two days fighting without rest. The train ride back would give him plenty of time for that.

**Svobodny Novgorod**

Mikhail stepped out of the train station, quickly pushing past the crowd, jostling for walking space. Nearly all of them were uniformed men and women in power suits, heading for the front. Anyone else was there to receive their heroes, sometimes in more than one piece.

Quickly, he made his way through the streets. The snow had been ploughed from the roads early in the morning. Cars and military vehicles went down the streets, many heading for the station and many more heading away from it.

How these structures had risen and such cultural and artistic advances made in such a short time, he could only wonder. There were art theatres and war museums springing up all over. In one of the war museums was housed the classic, now rusted, bloodied and worn out Lancer assault rifle that was used by the famed, now deceased war hero, Marcus Fenix.

He had also seen once in Geláre's war museum a thrashball that had once belonged to the sport's most famous face, who always introduced himself as "Number 83, The Cole Train!!"

Mikhail walked with his rifle clipped onto the back of his power suit, holding onto the strap with his right hand. He made his way toward the administrative offices.

When he arrived, he quickly approached one of the terminals. The queue was long, and he knew he was in for a wait. He resigned himself to it, and walked towards the shortest queue he saw. These queues were for anyone making enquiries about the status of servicemen. All they had to do was produce the tag, or some form of identification and the information would be displayed on the screen. They had the option of printing out the data, as well.

Administrative staff did exist, but these terminals often took away annoyances like the service status of a serviceman to make way for more important things. It was some bureaucrat's idea of improving efficiency, apparently.

His turn came soon enough. He scanned the tag, and Kolya's publicly available information was displayed on the screen. In combat. He shook his head for a moment, remembering his old squad leader. They had not updated the system yet…

Pressing a few buttons on the touch screen, he searched for his relatives, and found Oleg Ivanovich. His current assignment was as a Commissar at the People's Commissariat for Military Affairs. That was incredibly convenient. He only had to head to the counter with his request. After all, he was already at his destination.

"Hello," greeted Mikhail, taking off his hat and putting it on the counter. "I'm looking for Commissar Oleg Ivanovich."

"The Commissar is busy at the moment. Would you like to give him a message instead?" replied the young blonde woman at the counter.

"No. I must speak with the Commissar, immediately! I am under orders from Kolya Ivanovich, his brother to give him this." He raised his hand, the tag dangling from the chain.

"That is…" The girl took a look at the tag and let go of it a moment later. "I see. Hold on, I will contact him." She pressed a few buttons, and waited. Speakers crackled to life as a deep, clear and confident voice responded.

"This is Ivanovich."

"Commissar Ivanovich, I have one…" The clerk looked at him blankly for a moment, as if waiting for him to finish her sentence for her. He then realised that he had neglected to furnish her with his name!

"Mikhail Kozlov." She nodded with a smile.

"Mikhail Kozlov is here to see you. He says that he is under orders from your brother Kolya Ivanovich to hand you his… tag."

"My brother's… tag? Hold on. I will be right there."

"Thank you," said Mikhail as he stepped away from the counter, with Kolya's tag in hand and putting his fur hat back on his head. The waiting was intense. He had never liked being the bearer of bad news of any kind, much less the death of his own squad leader.

He almost instinctively knew when the man had arrived. He wore a leather coat and a fancy peaked cap. Without even looking at his nametag, Mikhail knew that this had to be the man. He walked like an officer, each stride full of confidence and strength.

"You must be Commissar Ivanovich," said Mikhail as he stood to attention and saluted.

"Drop the formality. We don't have time for this shit in war," Oleg said calmly, almost nonchalantly. "Now, you have something for me?"

"Ah, yes." Mikhail produced the tag, holding onto the chain. He placed the tag first in Oleg's large, open hand, lowering his own and letting the chain rest on the latter's fingers. "He ordered me to leave my position, find you and hand you his tag."

"My brother…" he muttered, looking at the tag. He took in a deep breath, nodded and put it away. "All right." There was no time for mourning. There was a war to fight. "You are the only survivor from Quiver squad, correct?"

"If you can call this surviving. I was ordered to leave because he did not want me killed," replied Mikhail, scratching the back of his head.

"You must have been a very dear friend to him… He even gave you the hat that I made for him," Oleg stated. He clapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them for a moment. "Come with me. I will find you a new squad." He turned on his heels, boots clicking on the expensive marble floor as he walked.

The place was quite grand, Mikhail noticed, as he walked along with the commissar. The floor was made of high-quality marble that seemed to glow all on its own, and the walls were not merely concrete painted over with a dash of white. The walls were painted to not be too glaring, but also not too dull.

"Come with me," he said, turning left down a corridor and into the multi-storey car park. "We're going to the South Blockhouse."

"But don't you have work to do here?" asked Mikhail, taken aback. He was personally sending him to the Blockhouse, but for what reason?

"You are Kolya's friend. Any friend of his is a friend of mine," replied Oleg as he stepped into the car, beckoning Mikhail to join him in the front seat. "I may be only an administrator at this time, but if given a chance I am more than willing to fight. But since I cannot… You will carry this spirit with you in my family's name."

**South Blockhouse**

The snow-covered gates to the Blockhouse were well-guarded. Two bunkers flanked the road leading to the entrance, with sheltered trenches dug around them. Crew-served weapons such as light machineguns lined the trenches and sentries patrolled the compound. It was like a citadel, with two machineguns on each wall and sentries patrolling on the sheltered catwalks. Razorhail was one of the natural defences afforded to this place.

As the vehicle passed through the now open gates, he remembered the story of the Blockhouse's construction. During the warmer seasons, the USSR had ordered their soviets, or workers' councils, to supply as many workers as possible to this place. It had been assembled from mostly pre-fabricated parts, and the trenches were dug during the warm seasons as well. Everything had to be done before winter and the razorhail came.

The spotlights turned away from the car and focused on the road again. Oleg parked the vehicle, and led the way into one of the buildings. This place was large enough to house a small town!

He immediately identified one of the buildings as a factory. There was all sorts of work going on, from what he could hear, and there were dumps for scrap metal outside that apparently were being cleared into the factory. _Probably recycling useable material_, he thought to himself. Oleg scanned his palm and retina, then spoke into the microphone.

"Access granted. Welcome to Installation Sigma," greeted a semi-sentient artificial intelligence. "Enjoy your stay, Comrade Commissar. You too, comrade."

Apparently, it was smart enough to recognise a person's entourage. Excellent. Mikhail made no outward expression as he followed Oleg inside. "Put your weapons here," instructed Oleg. An impatient-looking fellow stood on the other side of the counter. "Knife, rifle, sidearm, everything." Mikhail did as he was told, putting his weapons into the tray. "Put the rifle into storage. He won't be needing it anymore."

"Wait, what do you mean by that?" asked Mikhail, frowning. He felt vulnerable without his weapons, even in supposedly friendly environments. "That's my service weapon."

"Come with me and you'll see." Oleg patted the pistol in the holster under his armpit without any particular reason, and walked further down the corridor, making a right under the bright white fluorescent light.

They door in front slid open to the side, and they walked into the room. It was a huge area. They were obviously underground now. It looked like a factory of sorts… producing…

"Yes, Mikhail. This blockhouse supplies itself with weapons. It is also… a testing ground." They walked past the production area, and through another door. Here was a firing range. Several Reds were sitting around, talking loudly. "Mikhail, go over to the wall with the shutters. The rest of you put out your cigarettes and hide your condoms. I know you've been waiting all day for me but be civilised. This is a firing range." Oleg opened a panel with a key, and pressed a button. The shutters rose, and lights illuminated the shelves that it was hiding.

"Each of you, pick up a rifle and magazine." The group did as instructed, drawing their weapons from the shelves. There was only one for each person. These weapons had a very different design from the lancer. They were much lighter and sleeker, but still felt very well-made and sturdy.

Mikhail loaded the rifle with the magazine, tapped the bottom to ensure it was secured, pulled the charging handle and engaged the safety mechanism. "Form up. Rifles down."

Obediently, they lined up at the range, each taking their own spot. In total there were ten men. "Take aim, safety off!" he shouted as paper target boards presented themselves. "Your targets are twenty-five metres away. I trust you're all not drunk on antifreeze yet. You have six shots. I expect no misses. Fire at will!"

Immediately the entire place exploded in a flurry of muzzles flashes and gunfire. Within mere moments, it died down, and the target boards moved toward them.

"Impressive," he said to himself. For their first time handling this weapon, they had done quite well. There were no problems with weapon handling in general and no complaints so far.

"Uh, Sir… What's the purpose of this again?"

"This is the Avtomat Karabin sistemi Sakharova – the Automatic Carbine, Sakharov system, better known as the A.K.S., or simply 'axe'. As you may have noticed, it combines high firepower with a medium-high rate of fire. It uses a larger round, and due to advances in technology as usual, the recoil is only slightly more than the Lancer's, but for more damage. This, comrades, has been in development for years. It was carried out in secret in installations not unlike these, and now we have the perfect opportunity to put this weapon into action." Oleg smiled as the men checked out their new weapons. "These are now your rifles to keep. Soon, they will be all over the front lines and in the hands of our troops. The enemy will no longer be able to use our ammunition and our weapons against us."

"But comrade… This rifle lacks a close-range weapon…" muttered the same soldier.

"That's what bayonets are for. Your enemy depends on his chainsaw. It requires the user to put his weight into the attack in order to cut. It also requires that he gets in close enough to draw the weapon across your chest and rip out your guts. Said guts and blood also clog up the chainsaw, ensuring that you spend twice as much time on maintenance as you would on this weapon. A simple bayonet gives you reach, and saves you all the trouble." Oleg seemed very proud of this weapon. He must have had a hand in it.

Mikhail immediately knew the advantages of this weapon. It looked and worked in a simple fashion, without anything fancy. There was no targeting scope, no chainsaw mechanism, and no fancy additions to it. There was a rail system for attaching various devices, such as lights and targeting lasers, however. He had read about these in history books, but never actually seen working versions in action.

"You will be surprised how hardy this weapon is. It requires very little maintenance. I have personally tried and tested this weapon in the harshest of conditions. It has been thrown into water, run over by a car, used in desert heat and the coldest of winters, and still it fires like a charm." In the history of mankind there had only been one family of firearms that was so simple to use and maintain. Obviously the idea here was to mass-produce these weapons and ammunition for them. Mikhail looked at the rifle in his hands. This was the beginning of a wonderful relationship between man and weapon.

**Undisclosed Location**

The Stavka had gathered at last. "You are late, Semyon," commented Kalinin, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table. Marshal Semyon Timoshenko, the defence minister, took off his peaked cap and put it on the empty seat meant for him. He seemed to be in a hurry. "What is going on?"

"Here, take a look at this." He put his middle and fourth fingers, and also his thumb on one spot on the map on the table. He spread them apart from each other, and the map zoomed in on the location he wanted them to pay attention to.

They were now looking at a zoomed-in satellite image of Mount Haag. It was barely even recognisable as the snow-covered mountain that it once was. Its surface was pock-marked with craters. Barely a tree was left standing. Casualties of the fighting, both COG and Red, lay all over. Some were dying, but most were already dead.

"We have lost control of the mountain range. COG mechanised forces are making their way over the mountain. They have reopened the tunnels and the main highway, and are bringing their armoured units through the valley as we speak," reported Timoshenko, taking in a deep breath. The bunker air was quite stale, despite the ventilation systems working overtime.

"We knew this was going to happen from the start. That's why we even picked the mountain range in the first place," said Zhukov, a large man with a powerful voice that commanded attention and respect. "We still need time. The Third Army is not ready for operations yet."

"There is no time," stated Timoshenko plainly. "Not at the rate they are gaining ground. We may have been able to substantially make progress over the past year after formally declaring independence, but that was only because they were doing nothing but fighting amongst themselves."

"Then we will make time." Kalinin rose to his feet, stretching his arm over the table like a cobra striking its prey. His fingers landed on the map, zooming out of the mountain. He struck the screen with his finger and a red flag appeared, marking the spot. "Send Aleksei Korolov's First Tank Army here. Have him deploy his light antitank groups." His finger moved to a mountain higher up on the mountain range. "Regroup the Tenth Mountain Infantry here. Instruct them to keep their helmet filters on. Replace them if they're broken. Imulsion fumes may be leaking from there."

Kalinin then tapped his goateed chin with his finger, his stern expression giving off waves of negativity. Anyone in the room with any sense at all knew that something was up. Without warning, he leaned forward, his arm stretching out and firmly planting his right index finger. "Deploy the First Army here."

Zhukov nodded. Timoshenko looked at him, and at Kalinin. The light above shining onto the map seemed to give Kalinin's brown hair a certain glow, seemingly magnifying his already heavy presence.

"We are sending thousands of men to their deaths," commented Ilya Molotov, patting his short, dark hair. The fifty-year old man looked no older than thirty-five, and spoke with a kind of charm that was a rarity in this day and age.

"There is no other way, comrade Molotov," stated Kalinin, standing straight up. "In war, time is blood." Everyone understood this concept. More blood meant more time, and more time meant more blood. Neither way was a good path to walk, but time was what they needed. "Have them fortify the crossroads. Hold out for the winter offensive."

This far north, the bitter winter lasted much longer than elsewhere, and was colder than any other part of Sera. Terrain was every commander's best friend and worst enemy. They were gambling on the climate. All year, razorhail storms were abundant. During winter, the ground and everything else was frozen solid. Snow fell thicker and harder here than anywhere else. When spring came and the snow melted, the water and coming rains would turn the ground into mud. How anyone could fight under such circumstances, one could only wonder.

But fight they would.


	4. Duty?

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 03**

"Target acquired. Range, 400 metres." The gunner narrowed his eyes. Hah. As if it would do them any good. The fog was thick, and it was only the start of winter. At 400 metres they could barely make out the outline of an enemy vehicle, even with the improved optics. The climate had been like this for centuries, apparently. This far north, there were only two things at any time of the year – rain and snow. Thank God for all-terrain wheels.

"Fire!" instructed the tank commander. "Keep moving. We flank around to their rear!" The driver silently acknowledged, turning the moving tank to the right a little more and increasing speed. The tank rocked violently as the round left the barrel. Moments later, it slammed into the side of its target. Very little of it remained that could be recognised as an infantry fighting vehicle. One of its wheels rolled away, as other vehicles of its kind turned into piles of scrap metal and smoke all across the vicinity.

The First Tank Army had engaged the enemy in all-out tank warfare. The tanks were supporting the light antitank vehicles from a distance, giving them cover and avoiding direct contact with enemy tanks. The light antitank vehicles were meant to absorb most of the initial damage. It was sad, but that was the way it was to be.

Tanks were valuable, and losses could not be replaced with ease. Light vehicles had a good chance of survival too. With their high mobility, they could outpace tanks, play Ring a Ring o' Roses, and put more holes in them than the average piece of cheese had.

With that, the battle began. The light attack vehicles advanced from the left flank of the enemy mechanised unit. Antitank missiles flew to and fro, and main tank gun rounds were exchanged. Each side was concentrating on blowing the other to little bits and pieces.

"General Korolov, we will not be able to continue for long," said one of his military advisors. "Their forces greatly outnumber ours."

"Yes, I know. The fog is thickening. Order our men to stay within its confines. The enemy will not be able to target properly in such weather," he replied, acknowledging the issue. He had one hundred main battle tanks, one hundred light tanks and three hundred infantry fighting vehicles. The enemy, on the other hand, had a seemingly unlimited number of them that kept pouring right through the reopened tunnels and highways. "If necessary, use artillery as a shield."

"Yes, Comrade General."

**Crossroads, northeast of Mount Haag**

"Dig, you slugs! Dig!" ordered the commissar, waving his fist angrily. They had to entrench themselves quickly. The frozen soil was not making it any easier for them. "Our comrades are fighting miles away so that you have time to dig in and protect your own sorry ass! We are here to stop the fascist advance!"

"Then why aren't you digging with us?" asked one of the disgruntled soldiers, sticking his entrenching tool into the soil, lifting it up and piling the soil on the outer rim of his foxhole. It would serve as added protection against shell fragments and stray bullets.

"Silence! Do you want to be thrown into a penal battalion?" The commissar scowled and walked away.

"Asshole," muttered the man under his breath as he dug into the soil. The snow was letting up a little, and the chilly winds were not blowing so hard now. This was the best time to dig. They had to erect a shelter as well, to protect themselves from razorhail. More work. Perfect.

"Shh. Don't talk so loud; they'll hear you," chided a gruff voice. It was one of the senior soldiers. "The less you offend an officer, the less you get into trouble. Take it from an old soldier." The old man smiled, raising the shovel over his head and piling the soil on the side.

He was wearing a black rabbit fur hat and snow goggles. Like most of the ranking non-commissioned officers (NCOs), he disliked wearing the standard service helmet, although they had improved it with better visors over the past years. It was not comfortable at all – a fur hat was much warmer than a cold steel helmet, especially when your suit ran out of power and you became a walking hulk of metal, among other material. Recharges would be required eventually, and as such it was always recommended – almost turned into a regulation – to turn on the artificial environment only when sleeping.

It was difficult in such an environment. Warmth was important, as was conservation of energy. When powered, the suit could practically walk itself if it had to. Movement was easier and the artificial environment in the suit would keep temperatures at a much warmer 16 degrees Celsius by default – the user could adjust the setting to his preference.

The suit itself would keep them warm enough for now. Thy had been assigned winter clothing to wear underneath their suits. When the winter reached its peak, however, that would be a different story altogether. Temperatures could drop as low as 50 degrees below zero in the night, in some places.

They were hoping that the other side did not have the same advantage. And fortunately for them, this was true. The advance guard of the COG forces were not well-prepared for a long fight in the snow, anticipating a quick victory.

The Reds would prove them wrong.

**COG Advance Guard**

"Sergeant Mancini, you have been transferred from the Fifteenth Mountain to Thirtieth Mechanised Infantry."

"What? Transferred?" Lucas frowned with eyes wide open as he heard the transmission.

"Yeah. That's right. Command just reassigned you to your old position."

"Shit." He was hoping to get away from the Thirtieth Infantry. There were certain characters that he was hoping to avoid. "Fine. Thank you." He then turned to the driver. "How much longer until the crossroads?"

"If we stop getting shot at, another hour or so!" snapped the irritated man, struggling with the controls as the ground shook wildly beneath the vehicle. Tanks were taking pot shots at them from within the fog. "We're not stopping until we die or we reach the objective! Those are the orders!"

Lucas nodded. He knew that the possibility of them dying was very real, but that was the purpose of the vanguard – to find out what the enemy was up to, their strengths and weaknesses, and also to conduct reconnaisance missions. They were moving in without air or artillery support, and their heavy armour units were much farther behind.

Their light attack units, however, far outnumbered the enemy for sure. They had over a thousand infantry fighting vehicles and light tanks in total. In each of the infantry fighting vehicles was a squad of men, ready for battle. Speed was of the essence. They had to reach the crossroads before the enemy was ready to meet them with heavy resistance.

It would not be long now. Just a while more, and they could get out of these potential steel coffins. He checked his Lancer, ensuring that the weapon was clean and would be ready to fire at any given moment.

He took this time to reflect on things that had happened. He could not comprehend why and how these Reds could call artillery fire missions on themselves in a desperate attempt to hold the enemy back. The ones they had encountered on the way down the mountain had called in fire missions close to their front lines as a shield, to delay their advance. They had fought long and hard for the past twenty-four hours to reach the bottom of the mountain, breach the base and tear a hole in the Reds' lines.

Why was he even here? Duty? Duty to what? He knew that over fifty years ago there were monstrosities known as the Locust that almost obliterated mankind. And then men rallied together to fight a common enemy as one race.

But now, what was this? Why was he killing his fellow man? He rationalised that it was for their own good. He would not be able to live it down if more and more of these people turned over to the Reds. Their propaganda campaigns and brainwashing were among the stories he had heard ever since they took over that huge mass of territory.

_They can't possibly be fighting cohesively as one. It's all too fast. These people… They're throwing away their lives for nothing. We have to fight and end this war, fast._ He knew that reinforcements would not be too far behind. A few hours, at most. They would be in the thick of the fighting soon, and he decided to get some rest. With a deep sigh, he leaned back against the side of the vehicle and shut his eyes.

His thoughts drifted back to his family back at home. How were they getting on without him around? His sister had been quite insistent on enlisting to fight… And since she was of legal age to make her own life decisions, nobody could stop her even if they tried. She probably was in training by now, that spunky girl.

She had never known war. A few years ago he had been sent to local conflicts as a peacekeeper, and he had been caught in a civil war once. He almost laughed at the term 'civil war'. No war in the history of mankind had ever been a civil one. A famous general once said that "The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his.", and he agreed completely.

The very thought of war horrified him. He had seen many things happen. Some were more frightening and real than the most accurate history books, movies and documentaries could describe. In fact, he never wanted to pull out his weapon again.

"Contact! Contact!" shouted the gunner, opening fire with the main turret. It spewed red-hot grenades across the bridge. The vehicle backed up and away from it. "There's a bridge here, but they've probably wired it. Get out there and fight! We'll support you from here!" It seemed like he had to pull out his weapon after all.

Lucas said nothing, taking in a deep breath as the door opened, forming a ramp for them behind the vehicle. Rifle in hand, he got out and leaned against the rear of the vehicle. He observed the enemy positions. They were returning fire with their own grenade launchers and mortars. "Get into cover!" He led the way, heading for the trees next to the road. A light tank pushed past the IFV despite numerous warnings about the bridge. "Why do people enjoy sending themselves and their crew to their unavoidable deaths?"

The tank crossed the bridge, and as predicted, explosives detonated and took with them the centre section of the structure. The tank trundled forward, but the bridge had crumbled beneath the back end of its tracks.

"Whoa! Shit! What's that?"

"I don't know! We're losing balance!"

The tank teetered on the edge of what remained of the bridge on its side of the river. Lucas slapped his forehead, fingers resting on his helmet. "Morons." The tank overturned completely, and his squad members watched in shock as the tank plunged into the frigid river water. It was completely submerged; the river had to be at least four metres deep. "No way they're getting out of that one. No way we're getting our light tanks across then…" The tanks fanned out to the sides, opening fire on the enemy positions and providing some suppression fire.

"There has to be another way across. This is a town at a crossroads, not some fort with a moat. Follow me," he ordered, standing up and running into the woods. He had to find a river crossing, or the offensive would be stuck there for a long time to come. "Control, I am taking my squad through the woods. Searching for alternative route, over."

"Roger. Dispatching an armoured platoon to take the trail through the forest and see where it leads."

"Thank you, Control. Mancini out." Their boots crunched against fallen twigs, snapping them in two. They ploughed through piles of fallen leaves and snow. Why was there so much snow at such an early stage in the winter? Lucas did not see things turning out well at all, but he had to keep such thoughts to himself. As squad leader, he could not afford to let the morale of his men fall. "Boys, you hear that?"

"What?" asked one of them, still running along with his squad leader. "I don't hear shit."

"Better get your ears cleaned, then," replied Lucas, stretching his left arm out and pointing in the direction of the sound he was paying attention to. "It's a stream… Which means we can cross here."

He smiled, relieved that there was indeed a way around. Quickly, he contacted the control centre. "Control, we've found a stream. Suggest that the men be redirected here, over."

"Roger. There appears to be another river crossing to the west as well. Command has ordered a flanking action from both sides."

"Affirmative."

The armour led the way across. They seemed to be facing very little resistance, which was odd. The fighting on the mountain had been much more intense than this. Perhaps there was something more to it than met the eye.

"Contact!" shouted one of his men. "North side, by the house!" He saw the house that his subordinate was referring to. It was a wooden cottage with the windows knocked out and with sandbags in their place. "George; Rudolf, the two of you stay here and lay down a base of fire on those windows. Wong and Lee, flank left. Grenades before you attack." Bullets cracked overhead, tearing pieces of bark off a tree. "Now! Fire! The rest of you come with me!"

Gunfire erupted from both sides, and the IFVs unloaded grenades on their target. "Keep up that suppressive fire!" Two Lancers essentially output the same amount of fire as a machinegun, albeit with smaller-calibre rounds.

"Move to cover!" shouted Lucas, putting two bursts into the windows as he crossed the shallow stream. A thick trail followed a flying object as it rammed into the front of the first IFV. "Rockets? Control, enemy has antitank weapons! Advise caution." He did not even wait for a response. In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of the burning hulk that was the remainder of the IFV. "Poor bastards."

Machinegun fire spewed out the windows of the house, attempting to cut down his squad members Wong and Lee as they crossed. Not a chance! Lancer fire kept the gunner's head down, while grenades ripped a new hole in the house's wall.

"Don't go in there; it's creaking!" he shouted. He observed that the structure was becoming unstable. "Toss a grenade in there!" A moment later, a grenade on the end of a chain was flung into the building.

"Charge!" came an order from inside. Men ran out of the building guns blazing, taking cover behind a fallen tree. Volleys of gunfire were exchanged once more.

"We're getting nowhere. The two of you flank around them. Wong and Lee, avoid the house. Go around its side and make sure nobody escapes," he ordered. He took his Lancer in his hands and opened fire again, putting bullets over their heads. The grenade detonated inside the house. Fragments and wooden splinters flew in multiple directions. The roof caved in, and the small building came crashing down upon itself. "Put down your weapons and we'll let you live!"

"No! No surrender! No retreat, comrades! We stand and fight!" exclaimed a commissar, angrily waving a bottle in his hands. It suddenly shattered, sending glass fragments into his face… and setting him aflame. The flames caught onto him and his suit. "Yearrgh!"

"Oh my God… Is this for real?!" They observed in awe. There was an awkward silence. No weapons were firing as everyone watched the commissar calmly pick up two more bottles, lighting the rags stuffed through their necks with the flames on his body and clambering over the tree.

"Die, pigs! For the glory of the Motherland!" screamed the burning man. They did not know why they stood there like fools. The sight of a man set aflame, walking towards you as if nothing had happened seemed to do something to your brain that froze your limbs. "Burn, fascist!" One bottle came hurtling towards him, and the other towards the IFV. The latter responded by drilling holes in his suit and body with powerful, large-calibre rounds.

"Move!" one of his squad members butted him aside, causing him to tumble down the small hill. A moment later, he screamed like he had never screamed before in his life. It was a bloodcurdling, ear piercing one. Lucas rose to his feet and saw the man rolling around in the flames, screaming at the very top of his lungs. His hands were tugging at his suit, and his legs flailing about left and right.

It did not take long for death to claim him. In moments he was already dead, burnt to a crisp. They came up to him and been smothered the flames around with soil, then inspected his body. The suit had been burnt on the inside as well. Apparently some of the mixture had seeped in, and the suit lining caught fire. This was bad news.

"That bottle… it smashed right on top of his head." The man was obviously choking on something, and it was definitely not food. Lucas bent down and inspected the suit. It had been quite badly burnt… This was probably some kind of new weapon. He had caught only a glimpse of it, but it seemed like the bottle contained some kind of mixture, with a rag stuffed through the top to carry the flame.

"I've heard of these… In ancient warfare, before the gun, they used fire against each other. Even after the creation of firearms, there was a major conflict that led to the deaths of millions at the hands of each other. In that conflict, this weapon was created. I think they called it… the Molotov cocktail."

"And now history repeats itself," said Lee, looking at the IFV. "See for yourself. That's got to be some kind of new fuel mixture. Probably a low-grade Imulsion or petroleum derivative mixed with some higher-yield fuel. But that begs the question as to why it can eat right through armour…"

"We don't have time for that. We can leave the science for later," said Lucas as he continued inspecting the body. The flames had chewed through his suit, burning the polymers and even melting some of the steel components.

"I think that the Reds must have come up with some new way of processing fuels… Petroleum by itself doesn't burn through steel, and processed Imulsion is too valuable and volatile to just burn in such a manner…"

"Would you just shut up?" hissed Lucas as he continued studying the body. He then went over and checked the IFV. Even now, the fuel was still burning on its surface, eating away at the steel on the crew-operated turret.

The vehicle was burning from the inside out. The bottle had burst right on target, spreading the fuel and thus the flames inside the vehicle. Nobody was expected to make it out of that contraption alive.

"I think we should take these," said Lee, stowing his weapon and lifting in his hands a wooden box carrying three more 'Molotov Cocktails'.

They were in for one hell of a fight, and they knew it. This weapon could easily take out tank tracks, judging by how it burned. It could probably set fuel cells alight as well. These people were going to find a way to refine better fuel for this, and design better ways to disable or destroy vehicles with cheap and easily available material.

War necessitated the development of better weapons with which to kill your fellow man.

**Crossroads**

"Shit, I just ran out of power," complained one man, patting the chest plate of his suit with a sigh. "It's fucking freezing!"

"Stop complaining. You're lucky they gave us warm winter wear. The enemy probably aren't so lucky. Most of the suit is actually just bullet-resistant fabric, ceramic plating and polymers anyway. Don't be a lazy bastard; it's not that heavy."

"Are you sure? It definitely feels like some kind of metal to me."

"Of course I'm sure, you fool. How else do we move around? How heavy do you think it would be if it were all steel?" snapped the commissar.

"Good point…"

"Take it from me. No matter what happens, do not depend on the power suit. A soldier's greatest assets are his mind, his body, and his rifle." The commissar smiled to himself as he leaned back against the side of the trench. "This is why they tell you to only turn it on when sleeping. It's not meant to keep going. Sleep is important for each soldier – comfort during rest is essential."

The conscript wondered whether it was the commissar's heart, or the training from the officer corps that was speaking. He decided that the latter was far more likely than the former, and tried to stifle a laugh. He truly felt the winter now, even through the warm layer he was wearing underneath the suit. Bullet-resistant. Definitely, he scoffed.

He was willing to bet, however, that a knife would easily rip right through this 'armour'. There was no question about the chainsaw. That carbide-tipped monstrosity would easily cut through this kind of fabric like a hot knife through butter.

"Sasha! Stop daydreaming!" shouted the commissar, smacking the top of his helmet. "Contact!" He grabbed his AKS and disengaged the safety instinctively. "Pick up your weapon!" The commissar fired his weapon. Two shots at a time came out of the barrel at a high rate of fire. "I love the two-shot burst! They designed it so that both bullets would hit exactly the same spot that they were aimed. More armour penetration!"

"Really? We'll see for ourselves then!" The conscript joined him, switching to the two-round burst. "My god, this thing fires fast!"

"1800 rounds per minute cyclic rate, comrade. Didn't you read the instructions?" the commissar replied with a hearty laugh. "The first two shots are always fired at 1800 rpm. On automatic, after that it cycles down to 600."

"Instructions? They just threw this thing into my hands!" Bullet casings rolled to the side on the floor of the trench. Streams of enemy bullets cracked overhead; they were returning fire.

"Better learn, then!" replied the commissar, putting two rounds in a Gear's face, punching a hole in his helmet. "Cover me; I'm reloading!"

"Yes, comrade!" The conscript rose above the trench and opened fire, putting two-round bursts over the enemies' heads while his officer reloaded. The gun fired so rapidly that the two shots almost sounded like one. He then observed a red light on the surface of his suit. "… Comrade Commissar? Uhh… What's this?"

"Hammer of Dawn!!" exclaimed the officer, quickly clambering out of the trench. He crawled for a moment before he picked up the pace and ran up to the next trench. He did not even look behind as a bright orange beam descended from the heavens, plunging through the clouds and cold air. He heard a few screams, and dared not look back. He knew that he would see nothing there. The Hammer of Dawn left very little, if anything, in its wake.

The commissar dropped into the trench. "Oh my God, did you see that?! They have the Hammer of Dawn! How do we fight this shit?!" exclaimed a clearly terrified soldier, eyes wide open and mouth agape beneath his helmet. "What the hell?! Why don't we have that on our side?!"

"We do. Command just neglected to issue us the laser designators. We could probably use the Hammer of Dawn against them, if we had one. Or we could capture one from them."

"But why? Why don't we have it when we need it most?"

"Don't ask, boy. We just fight," snapped the commissar. There was nothing else he could tell him. He knew without a doubt that they were simply being sent here to delay the enemy and buy time for their main forces… But he could not talk like this. The infantry had always borne the brunt of the fighting, from the old ages until now.

He was struggling to keep himself together as he observed more Hammer of Dawn beams tearing across the trenches. The war was getting uglier by the moment, and everyone knew it. Yet they would still fight.

This was not about profit, fancy ideals or conquest anymore. They were fighting to survive.


	5. Torchbearers

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 04**

"Why are we making no progress?" demanded Schmidt, smashing his fist on the table and shaking several coffee cups. "It's been three days and they're still stuck at the crossroads. What is taking so long?"

"Mein Fuhrer, the Reds are putting up a tough fight. Hammer of Dawn satellites don't orbit the northern regions as often as in other regions and even then the weather is unrelenting," stated Hoffman, clearing his throat and shutting his dry eyes for a moment. He had not had proper sleep since the operations began the previous week. "The Reds have sent their First Army to fortify the location. Satellites have so far been unable to see what's happening because of thick fog and cloud cover, but we have received reports from the front that the First Tank Army has been hiding in the fog and woods, and ambushing our armoured units."

"Ambushing? Did we not install thermal sights for a reason?" Evidently, Schmidt was displeased. This was not something new, of course.

"Yes, but… many vehicles have broken down due to the worsening weather. Unconventional enemy tactics also caught us off-guard, but it will not happen again."

"Unconventional tactics? Explain." The leader sounded quite curious about these tactics of which he spoke.

"They sit with their engines off and lie in wait in the fog. When our units come in range they open fire and obliterate them, and we have lost many combat patrols to these. We have yet to claim a single enemy tank."

"And you have the audacity to just report this as it is?!" The Fuhrer was Fuhrious! "You are a general commanding the forces of the COG. I would expect that you would have solved such a problem by now."

Hoffman sighed. "Yes, mein Fuhrer. As I said, it will not happen again. We have pulled our units back and regrouped them. The COG First Tank Army has arrived to support our assault, and so has the Fourtieth Tyran Artillery."

"Who commands the Reds' First Tank Army?"

"That would be General Aleksei Korolov. He is a trained tank commander with battlefield experience as a tank battalion commander. He knows the North like the back of his hand. His men are also among the best-trained and most experienced on the front lines. Although we outnumber the Reds' First Tank Army two to one, their combined combat power is equivalent to that of the COG First Tank Army."

"Our operation cannot be delayed, or the Reds will gain valuable time," said Schmidt, crossing his legs. This was a sign that he wanted what he said to be taken seriously. "Capture the crossroads at any cost."

Schmidt was right. Without taking the crossroads, they would have to traverse difficult terrain over long distances, and waste valuable time and fuel. Every effort that could be made would be made. "Our men are engaging as we speak, mein Fuhrer.'

**Crossroads**

The men of the First Army could hardly be called an army. They numbered only ten thousand initially, and were now down to five thousand. 'Division' would have been a much better indicator of their size. The moniker was meant to mislead the enemy as to their numbers.

Made partially of untrained conscripts, their combat power was not as powerful as an army's, but that was made up for with the presence of the elite 27th Mechanised Rifle Battalion. The 27th Mechanised Rifles had seen combat in multiple civil wars, and were battle-hardened troops led by battalion commander Captain Isidora Petrova. They numbered five hundred.

For the first time in a long time, a woman stood at the front of the fighting with her men. She had descended from a long line of famous warriors and generals, and had a reputation to live up to. At the age of 29, she had already made quite a name for herself with her numerous victories and conquests in and out of battle. This included dark rooms in which things happened that should never see the light of day.

"How far are they from the town centre?" she asked. The town square was going to be a point of contention. That much she was sure of. Her blonde ponytail swung wildly as a gust of cold wind blew through the open window. Her intense blue eyes stared at the lieutenant before her, who took in a deep breath. "Give me a straight answer."

The man nodded, pointing at the hand-drawn paper diagram on the wall and then looking at his commander. It looked simple enough, and served its purpose. "The enemy are fast approaching the town, from here." He pointed to the southeast sector. "Approximately three thousand infantry supported by artillery, light armour and… the Hammer of Dawn."

"I am aware of the Hammer of Dawn. I trust you have instructed the men to stay indoors?"

"Yes, comrade. The snowstorm is almost upon us."

She smiled, and so did the lieutenant. They had a welcoming surprise for the COG troops. When the snowstorm came specialists would go and mine the roads, and created barricades. "How many are there on our west flank?" she asked.

"Reports estimate four thousand enemy infantry on the west flank, also supported by armour. We have garrisoned the buildings and our men are fighting as we speak," he reported, taking in another deep breath and taking off his helmet for a moment. It was quite stifling to keep it on.

"We stick to the plan. Entrench the entire town square and town hall, and mine all roads leading in. If there aren't enough sandbags, use crates and pack soil and debris into them. When the fighting becomes too difficult, pull back the men in waves. Keep up appearances so that they don't notice the retreat. We have to delay them as long as possible."

"Yes, comrade," he acknowledged with a nod, putting his helmet back on. "If there is nothing else, I will take my leave." He saluted, standing to attention. Isidora nodded, and returned the salute. The man turned around, grabbed his rifle and walked down the magnificent corridor. This place was beautiful, but it would soon become a pile of rubble. They knew it, but they were going to fight anyway.

"Artillery! Incoming artillery!" came a shout from the men at the wall. "Kapitan, get inside!"

She turned her head to see a blur of silver smash into one of the pillars. It shattered the pillar on impact, reducing it to a pile of broken stone. She was shaken off her feet, and quickly got back up, observing the destruction as another shell impacted the structure.

"All of you, get inside! Get away from there!" she ordered, beckoning them into the rooms as she opened the door. It was safer to be inside than standing near the railings of the second floor. Her men did as instructed, keeping a hand on their helmets as dust and chips fell from the ceiling. She hoped to the depths of her heart that the building would hold.

*****

"Forward, men! Move it!" shouted Lucas, hopping over the fallen tree trunk. He advanced to cover further in front, laying down cover fire for his men. "We're almost there; the town centre is just down the road!"

"Burn, pigs!" came a shout from above as the first IFV trundled by. He looked up at the building, and at the bottom of his field of view he saw a great ball of fire just as he heard the shattering of glass.

"Shit!" he said, lowering his head instinctively. "Molotovs!" The IFV continued on its way, the turret gunner climbing out of the vehicle and rolling around, screaming his lungs out. "There goes another one." He gestured to Wong and Lee. "Wong, Lee, hammer those windows! Rudolf, take George with you. Go in and clear that building!" With his remaining squad members, he charged into the building on his right. He leaned against the wall, and so did another one of his squad members.

"You, kick the door in," he ordered. The unquestioning man did as he was told, bringing his foot back and kicking the door off its hinges. As the door fell, it split into a thousand pieces, bullets ripping it to shreds and flying out the doorway. "Damn it!" Blood splashed all over the concrete floor and on his suit. Not much remained of the man, save his legs, arms and rifle.

"We need suppressive fire!" shouted Lucas, firing blind from behind cover as dozens of enemy bullets poured through the doorway. A grenade glided through the open doorway, into the room and exploded in mid-air. Sharp, deadly fragments of metal showered the Reds. Taking advantage of the confusion, Lucas charged inside, and saw a man lying on his back in the smoke, his helmet broken and his suit bloodied.

The panicked soldier grabbed his weapon, fumbling terribly with it in an attempt to bring it to bear on his enemy.

Poor soul never had a chance. Lucas drilled holes in his face with his Lancer, choking back his dinner of mashed potatoes and meatballs. Somehow he could not help but feel sorry for the man he had just killed.

"Up the stairs!" he exclaimed. He leaned against the wall, keeping his weapon trained on the top as his men moved up. They moved as a team, one providing overwatch for the other.

"Upper level clear!" reported the soldier.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. There's nothing here. It's empty," came the answer. He came back down, and left the building with Lucas.

One man with a machinegun, in one building. Was that all there was to it? Or was it some kind of new tactic to waste their time? With less manpower, less firepower, and less supplies on their side, how could they ever have any hope of winning? He shook these thoughts out of his head and concentrated on what lay ahead – the town centre.

"Look out!" he shouted, going prone quickly. One of the IFVs had just been blown to bits. "Mines! Control, the road has been mined!"

"Mines, in the middle of a town?!"

"Yes, Control, that is affirmative. There are mines on the roads."

"Roger that. Advise caution, over. Tread lightly. Control out."

Lucas shook his head. Now they were using mines. Wonderful. Almost immediately thereafter, machinegun fire erupted from the next building. This was going to take a while.

They fought hard for over an hour, slaving their way through the buildings and doing their best to avoid the roads. They fought from building to building, clearing the way for salvage vehicles to bully the wreckages aside and for bomb squads to defuse or remove the mines.

The attack was slowed for many hours. It was painstaking, backbreaking work to remove the mines and improvised explosive devices in cold weather and under fire. Some parts of the mines required precision handwork, sometimes with tools. The cold weather did not help in this department at all. One false move and a mine could detonate with deadly force, brutally slaying everyone in its blast radius.

Lucas thought about the whole fiasco. The Reds were smart, these people. They knew how to delay an attack. They were calling artillery fire missions on a regular basis, particularly at the long queues of vehicles approaching the town square from the road. They were disorienting them, making them lose their momentum and their organisation. There was no better way to kill an army than to have it kill itself with its own stupidity and confusion.

And even then, with the mines cleared, there was still the question of the town centre. It was barricaded with all sorts of debris, piled together. Rubber tires were also burned to create thick barriers of hot, black smoke through which it was difficult to see. But they already knew what to expect – fierce resistance from determined men.

*****

"Kapitan! The enemy is upon us," reported the lieutenant, a hint of worry in his voice. "They have advanced faster than we expected despite the barricades."

"Bring out the antitank weapons. Are the Torchbearers assembled?" she asked, referring to her elite group of men.

"Yes, Kapitan. All of the remaining two hundred men await your orders."

"Good," she said. The three hundred of them lost in battle would not be forgotten, and neither would their thousands of brethren who had fought and died alongside them. Their sacrifice and heroism had held the enemy back this long. "So many lives… All of them gone, just like that."

"Kapitan, what are your orders?" asked the lieutenant, clearing his throat. An artillery shell impacted the town square, creating a crater in its wake and throwing up obscene amounts of soil, concrete and asphalt.

"We hold fast, Comrade," she said. "We hold fast. Distribute the ammunition amongst the men. However long we have to fight here, we will fight. Keep the antitank weapons stored safely."

"Incoming!!" exclaimed a soldier excitedly, taking cover behind a pile of debris. Shell after shell impacted the building and the area surrounding it. Screams and shouts of agony came from all directions. "They are preparing to attack! Get ready to fight!" The shelling stopped as abruptly as it began.

"Medic! We need a medic!"

"We don't _have_ a medic!" snapped Isidora, disengaging the safety mechanism on her rifle. "Get the wounded back inside, quickly!" She then turned to the men along the outer corridor. "All mortar crews, take aim! Set range to 200 metres! Zero wind adjustment! Fire!"

"Yes, Comrade Kapitan!" The mortar crews quickly planted their mortars behind their debris-and-sandbag emplacements. "Keep up the fire! This is where we stand!"

And with no warning at all, the shells started falling again. A pool of blood had formed at the front of the town hall. Men screamed for their mothers. Others fell silent, and sank into unconsciousness.

The lieutenant opened fire with his Axe. The two-shot burst was a hot favourite with all the soldiers now, providing high accuracy and firepower. Bullets were flying overhead and machineguns were exchanging volleys with each other. Infantry fighting vehicles and light tanks pummelled each other with antitank missiles and grenade rounds. "How many?" the mortar crewman asked him as he loaded the next round.

"Too many!" replied the officer. "Fire at will! Keep up the fire!"

"What if we run out?"

"We won't live long enough to run out of ammunition! What, are you expecting to get out of this alive?" Isidora yelled, smacking the mortar crewman on the top of his helmet with her foot. "Fire!"

It almost seemed beautiful. Ordnance of all kinds was being used. The COG troops were advancing, using their vehicles, wreckages and debris as cover. Anything they could hide behind was better than standing out in the open.

The many machineguns on the upper floor and roof of the town hall poured hot lead upon the battlefield. Overheating was not a concern.

"West flank! The west flank is crumbling!" reported one infantryman over the radio.

"First platoon, take that flank!" ordered Isidora. The men of the first platoon silently acknowledged, pulling away from their positions on the wall and heading downstairs to the west flank. Where their combat power was needed, they would be drawn and reassigned there.

"Comrade Kapitan, the enemy are gaining ground! We are too few!" said the lieutenant, reloading his rifle. "It would be a waste for you to die here, comrade."

"Nonsense. It would be an honour to die by your side!" she said, lobbing a lit Molotov cocktail over the wall and into the fray. She followed with another bottle. Both impacted the ground, creating a barrier of flame in front of the town hall and catching several enemy infantry in the attack. An entire platoon quickly retreated in confusion and fear. It was utter chaos. Bullets were flying everywhere, debris was falling, and the world shook like a wild beast unleashed, beneath their feet.

"It would be an honour, comrade!" concurred the lieutenant. "But it would also be a waste of good men and a good commander!" He kicked her in the gut and hit the side of her face with his rifle. With barely a whimper from the second blow, she lost consciousness. He put down his weapon, carrying hers and draping her over his shoulders. "Men of the 27th Mechanised, comrade Kapitan Petrova is unconscious. As ranking officer Lieutenant Leonid Ibragimov, you and the Torchbearers are now under my command."

"What makes you think we, the Torchbearers, will listen to you?" an angry soldier snapped at him over the communications channel as he fought. The arrogant bastard! Who was he to think he was in charge?

"You don't have much of a choice, now, do you? Take Kapitan Petrova and get out of here, all of you. Go, now, before they overrun us!" he ordered them as he descended down the marble staircase. He wrapped his arm around her arms and wrapped his right arm around her right thigh to ensure she did not fall. "Somebody, come to the staircase now!"

Two men hurried there immediately, their helmets bearing the Torchbearers' Flame. "What happened to her?" they asked as one of them took her in his arms.

"I hit her. Take her and get out of here. It would be a waste for her to die here. She can still lead our men to victory and save hundreds of lives. Take her to safet- oogh!" His head stung with a dull pain that spread across it, even with the helmet on. One of the two had given him a hard punch to the side of his helmet.

"That's for her. Now get up. You can't hold this position without us," he declared. "First, Second and Third platoons, we stay and fight! Platoons Four, Five and Six, take her and get the hell out of here." The soldiers obeyed without question. He seemed to be the one in charge after all. Three platoons of men assembled quickly, taking the captain with them as they left. "Tell Comrade Kapitan that her men died fighting."

"And tell the politicians that the Torchbearers died as heroes," added Leonid as he got to his feet and headed back up the staircase. An explosion downstairs sealed off the car park. Now there was no retreat. No escape. Soon, they would be overrun. "Comrades! This is our finest hour! History will remember us as free men who died fighting!"

He turned to face the oncoming swarm of enemy infantry, lighting a Molotov cocktail and tossing it into the fray. His arm stretched over the balcony, and a moment later his arm was no longer there. He lay against the wall, his spine crushed and part of his chest missing. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. Leonid Ibragimov was no more.

"Did you see that?! That grenade took out the lieutenant!"

"Shut up and fight! Fight!" shouted the Torchbearer who had earlier rebuked Leonid. "He will not be forgotten. Neither will we." Bullets cracked overhead, marking the walls with holes and throwing clouds of dust into the air.

The brutal fighting continued. Blood spilled all over on both sides. The first floor was no longer safe, it was decided. A section of men moved up to the staircase, covering the retreat. At least three were gunned down as they tried to escape. The Torchbearers' First Platoon remained on the first floor, fighting to the last breath, the last bullet and the last man. The building continued to rock violently, taking mortar fire from multiple directions.

"Master Sergeant! We will stay here and cover you!" offered the NCO in charge of Second Platoon. "The rest of the men under Lieutenant Ibragimov wish to fight alongside us!"

"Give them hell, comrades," he replied, loading his rifle with his last magazine. "Move! Upstairs!" He was leading his men from the frying pan, and straight into the fire. The roof was completely exposed to enemy attack.

"Comrades! Let's send them home!" shouted the sergeant, priming a grenade and tossing it down the staircase. A shout of "Grenade!!" was followed quickly by an explosion, and the yelping of men in their death throes.

It did not take very long. Taking fire from outside and from within the building, Second Platoon stood no chance at all. They fought for their lives, wrestling with history as it sought to claim them for itself. Machinegun fire, grenades and streams of Lancer bullets cut down the Torchbearers, costing many Gears their lives.

Eventually, the fight came to the roof. Third Platoon, with their leader the Master Sergeant, fired upon their enemies, who came rushing up under the cover of smoke and mortar fire.

"Move to the fallback position! Return fire!" ordered the Master Sergeant, taking shots at whatever he could see as he stepped backwards. "Keep up the fire!" He did not even stop to aim; the very instant he got a bead on a target, he squeezed the trigger and put two rounds in it.

They reached the west half of the roof, lying in craters that had formed in it from artillery shelling. The fighting stopped abruptly. No fire came from the east side, which the enemy now held. The silence seemed rather odd; the enemy had all the resources it needed to crush them. Why were they not doing it?

"Put down your weapons! Surrender and we will let you live! Come and fight for us! Your talents are wasted on the Reds!" shouted a man from the extreme end of the roof through his loudhailer, taking cover – or cowering, as the Torchbearers called it – behind a machine gunner.

"You hear that, comrades? They want us to surrender!" scoffed the Master Sergeant, laughing. The remainder of his platoon also laughed along with him, much to the chagrin of the COG officer who was offering them surrender over the loudhailer.

"You want our weapons? Here's our weapon!" He lit the rag and lobbed a Molotov cocktail over the rooftop air ventilation units, setting fire to a large area of the east side of the roof. No further talk was needed. These men were not about to surrender. "Fuck you! Fix bayonets!"

"Hooah!" acknowledged the other Torchbearers. Multiple clicks followed, the sound of bayonets secured to the rifle. No more needed to be said to his men. Each of them knew that they were going to die here, but if they were going to die, they would die on their own terms. No surrender. No retreat. No mercy.

With a great roar and weapons pointed to the front, towards their attackers, they charged forward. They ran as fast as their legs would take them. They vaulted over any obstacles in their way, heading straight for the enemy. They would die, but many of them would accompany them to whichever hell they were going to.

There was also something about long, shiny, pointy objects that put fear into the hearts of men and stunned them to the depths of their being. These men were knowingly charging straight into a machinegun.

A machinegun that was not firing.

Taking them completely by surprise, the Torchbearers put down the machine gunner with two shots to the head. The Master Sergeant leapt over the crate that the gun was mounted on, plunging his 12-inch-long spike bayonet into the space between the officer's helmet and his body. He pulled it out, liberating a great spray of blood before firing his weapon on the other COG infantry present.

The other Torchbearers fought by his side, duelling rifle-to-rifle, hand to hand. Chainsaws ripped through bayonets and armoured power suits. Still the Torchbearers fought. They were down to only six, but already the COG platoon at the roof was faltering.

"Forward, comrades! For the Motherland!" The Master Sergeant ordered his men to give chase down the stairs. These six brave souls would not give in. If history was the final judge of their deeds, they were going to give it one hell of a case to judge. The retreating men took heavy fire from behind, some going down dead and others crawling their way to safety.

"No mercy! No retreat! No- Ugh!" The Master Sergeant took a shot to the abdomen from an armour-piercing round. He fell to one knee, but he stood up on his feet as the rest of his comrades charged forward, bayonets at the ready.

"No more bullshit," said Lucas, opening fire with his Lancer. Others by his side followed suit, including a light machinegun planted on the ground. At least a hundred rounds glided through the air, tracers marking their trajectory. The five charging Torchbearers fell to the floor, forming large pools of blood that soon became one. The Master Sergeant took bullets to his breastplate. Some penetrated, but he remained standing, though his legs and back shivered. He almost looked like some kind of zombie from a horror movie.

Again the COG men were flabbergasted. The Reds seemed to be doing things that were humanly impossible! "H-h-how can he still be standing? He took an AP round to his stomach!" commented one of them, looking left and right at his buddies for an answer.

The man seemed to stand up straight, raising his bloodied arms to chest level as he fell backwards onto the floor. The silence; the lull in the fighting made it seem like it happened in slow motion.

Lucas thought he could hear him screaming as he fell. It was like no other cry he had ever heard in his life. He could practically feel it.

Pain.

Sorrow.

Injustice.

Author's note: "Kapitan" refers to "Captain", which is Isidora's rank. :)


	6. And The Cogs Turn

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 05**

The room was silent. The Stavka members looked at each other, and then at Kalinin, who sat poker-faced at the end of the table. "The First Army has fallen," reported Semyon Timoshenko, wiping sweat from his brow. "The COG forces have overrun and captured the crossroads."

"That was an expected outcome, comrades," Kalinin said, patting his hair down with his hands. "Report that the men of the First Army died as heroes in service of their Motherland." In war, there was more than one kind of battle. Aside from the actual bleeding on the battlegrounds and the standard information gathering and electronic warfare, morale on the home front had to be maintained.

Such stories of sacrifice, bravery and heroism would boost morale, and invoke emotion among the people… Which is precisely what was required. They needed this news to spread to the people within COG-held territory. Each able man and woman was to conduct guerrilla warfare operations against the fascist invaders. Where they could be delayed, they must be delayed. Where supplies could be stolen, they must be stolen. Otherwise, they must be destroyed. Those seeking vengeance against the Coalition of Ordered Governments were more than welcome to put on the red uniform.

"They are advancing, comrade, further north," continued Timoshenko. "Tank country."

"Yes. Have our air units been properly refitted?" asked Isaak Mikoyan. Weather reports stated that for the next few days there would be relatively clear skies and stable temperatures. He did not want aircraft hydraulic pipes or other components freezing in mid-flight. "The Thanatos, specifically?"

He was referring to the new aircraft they had developed, converting cargo planes to use a variety of combinations of heavy weapons such as artillery, rapid-fire heavy machineguns, automatic cannons and so forth. These were among many other innovations that the Reds had developed in secret before and after the coup. Winning over scientists and conducting clandestine operations on a regular basis had paid off.

"The air force is ready at any time," replied the large, tall man firmly. "Aleksei Korolov's First Tank Army has pulled back to regroup with the Second Tank Army. At present they report strength of 100 main battle tanks, 76 light tanks and 110 IFVs. The Second Tank Army will join the First Tank Army under General Korolov's command. Total strength of 300 MBTs, 306 light tanks and 400 IFVs."

"Good. Korolov must not squander his units. Materiel and experienced crews are hard to replace," said Kalinin. "Now, our next move. The enemy have taken the crossroads. Keep them on their toes. I want feint attacks and artillery harassment from the men near the crossroads. I want them to think that we are trying to retake the crossroads. These are pawns that we will have to sacrifice in order to buy some time."

"Yes, Comrade," acknowledged Timoshenko, clearing his throat. They went over the battle plans over and over again, fine-tuning them and discussing what possible actions they could take. That decided instead to leave the tactical details to the commanders on the front itself.

The Southern Front was formed 60 kilometres north of the crossroads. The Second Army, one million-strong and backed up by Korolov's First Tank Army, was to hold the entire stretch and was now fortifying their position with trenches and bunkers.

The Second Tank Army was being assembled, to be placed under the command of Lieutenant General Fedor Voroshilov. His younger brother Filipp Voroshilov was placed in charge of the 30th Artillery Division, reconstituted from straggling artillery groups and fresh troops to support the Southern Front.

The door burst open suddenly, and the sentries standing guard inside immediately drew their weapons, pointing them at the intruder. Two other sentries who were outside grabbed hold of the man by his shoulders.

"What is it, Viktor?" asked Kalinin, standing up and looking in Viktor's direction. Viktor Kosigin was the People's Commissar for Trade and Industry, and also People's Commissar for Agriculture. He raised his hand, and the sentries withdrew their rifles, saluting the officer as he walked in. The man seemed rather panicked. "You look worried."

"Yes, Comrade. There has been a development," Viktor reported, booming across the room. This raised many eyebrows, many of which were staring at him.

"Report." Kalinin liked men to get straight to the point instead of wasting valuable time.

"It seems that General Snow is taking his time this year. Meteorological reports say that the temperature is actually rising and that winter will not come in full force for at least another three weeks."

"… Are you sure?"

"Yes, Comrade. The snow has begun thawing." This was too coincidental. Now, when they needed the power of winter most, the temperature was rising above the freezing point.

"Hmm. The fields will turn into mud… perfect," Kalinin said to himself, mulling over whether this was to pose a problem, or if it would be an advantage. The climate in the north was always a double-edged sword. A single degree change in temperature could make the difference between victory and defeat.

"I want the assembly of power suits reduced; only one factory is to produce them for our elite units. Manufacture simple bullet-resistant vests, steel helmets, balaclavas, gloves and boots. Hand out extra valenki footcloths. Manufacture more winter uniforms, more antitank weapons and more AKS rifles. Bring out all weapons in storage and all decommissioned weapons," stated Kalinin, looking at the men at the table. He seemed to have an idea in his head. "We have three weeks until winter sets in. That's plenty of manufacturing time."

In this era of technology, yes, it was true. All that he was saying made some sense immediately. But Timoshenko and Zhukov knew that look in their leader's eyes. It spoke of mischief. He looked like a young boy with new toys that he was going to bully his neighbour next door with.

"May I ask, Comrade, why you want this?" asked Viktor. He too, recognised that mischievous look in his eyes, and that grin of his.

"I want the COG to freeze to death. Our industry is not presently capable of producing power suits for all our men, even with our size and our population of 200 million. The time and material would be better spent on other ventures," he stated very plainly for everyone. "We will lure them into the winter without adequate preparation, tempting them with quick victory…"

"So we make them overconfident, lure them far into our territory and overstretch their supply lines," said Timoshenko, nodding to himself.

"And then General Snow catches the poor fools with their pants down," added Molotov for good measure. The Stavka members laughed, and Kalinin dismissed Viktor with a wave of his hand. "But where?" He asked as the doors closed behind Viktor.

Kalinin said not a word, shifting the map further north hundreds of miles, past the small towns along the way until they saw a river that ran from west to east. It was the most significant river in the whole of the USSR – the Shirma River.

His almighty finger rose over the table once more, landing on the city along the Shirma. This city was a hub of activity and trade along the Shirma River, and was an important access route from the northern seas to the southeast, through the lands now held by Imulsion-rich Tiper. Taking this city had great significance for the COG, and it was more than just strategic.

The city had a special name.

Kaliningrad.

**Crossroads**

"So in the end what did we capture?" a soldier asked his NCO, commenting sarcastically as the cold rain beat down on them. They were clearing the debris from the town hall, so that it could be used as a command post.

"A pile of bricks and stones," replied the corporal, putting aside the stack of debris he had collected. These were unnecessary obstructions in the way of the new occupants. "What the hell were we fighting so hard for? They were gonna retreat anyway, like that group that got away."

"Shut up," hissed Lucas, leaning in close to the man's head. "You haven't the slightest idea what these people are like."

"Oh? And you do? We fought too, you know," snapped the angry corporal. Oh, the nerve!

"You didn't see them when they fixed bayonets and charged a machinegun that was backed by a full platoon of infantry, Corporal," stated Lucas. The memory still brought shivers to him. Whether that was just the cold weather or the shock of the event, he did not know. "Anyone who saw something like that and doesn't have some modicum of respect or fear for his enemy doesn't have the decency to be a Gear. Now stop bitching and get to work."

He walked away, not even bothering to wait for the offended young man's rebuke. He grinned to himself; he was like that only a few years ago – enthusiastic, full of confidence, perhaps even to the point of arrogance.

He wondered when he would be physically transferred back to the Thirtieth Mechanised Infantry. He was officially back there now, but he was still with the men of the vanguard. He looked up at the sky, the rain soaking his suit and even seeping into the clothing he was wearing underneath it. This was strange. Winter was upon them, yet there was rain and the snow was thawing.

"Sergeant Mancini," his communications channel crackled. "You are being recalled to the Thirtieth Mechanised. They are on the way to the crossroads, and will arrive tomorrow at your location. Rejoin them and await orders."

"Roger that, Control. Thank you." Without even a word of goodbye, the line went dead. "What an attitude, that woman." He shook his head. The Thirtieth were due to arrive tomorrow. He wondered who would take his place. Would he take good care of the men under him? Would they survive under his command? Would anyone here survive until the end of the fighting? Nobody knew, but could only hope. They were advancing further into enemy territory, into colder and more dangerous ground that they knew little about.

A familiar whistle went overhead. On instinct, Lucas dropped and lay prone, keeping a hand on his helmet. Tremor after tremor rocked the town like the footfalls of a gigantic monster on the loose. "Artillery! Enemy artillery! Get down!" he shouted, crawling across the pock-marked town square to the relative safety of the town hall. Panicked men caught in the open crawled into holes in the ground and hoped that the shells did not land on them and split them into a dozen parts.

When would this end?

**Southern Front**

Sixty kilometres north of the crossroads, and three hundred kilometres south of Kaliningrad. General Nikolai Yeremenko stood over the large wooden table with a paper map laid over it. It fit just nicely, leaving only an inch between the paper's ends and the table's sides. Red and blue lines were drawn on it, marking Red positions and COG positions.

He was coming up with a plan for the coming battles. He had left the 15th Artillery Division, 28th, 29th and 30th Mechanised Infantry Divisions, and 20th Light Tank Corps near the crossroads under Kalinin's orders to keep the enemy busy and hold them off as long as they could with deception and guerrilla tactics.

"Comrade General, the remnants of the 27th Mechanised Infantry have arrived at Rostov and are boarding the train. Comrade Kapitan Isidora Petrova wishes to speak to you," reported one of his staff. He nodded, his short, dark brown, oiled hair shaking slightly. A single lock of hair slid down over his right eyebrow as if waving to the staff officer as he took his leave. He picked up the handset on the field radio and put it to his ear, mentally noting that technology was beginning to step back towards that of wars long past for their army. Evidently, resources were being put into other things. He pushed a button and spoke. "This is Yeremenko."

"Sir," she addressed him firmly and enthusiastically. He smiled as he heard this voice. It was always refreshing to hear a woman speak. He could feel the energy in the way she spoke, just from one word. It told him one thing: she wanted to return to the war.

"Kapitan," he replied. "I was told you would like to discuss something with me."

"Yes, Sir. My men and I would like to return to the fighting," she said as she stepped onto the train platform. It was a mess of activity with men and women walking around, moving the wounded in and moving supplies out. "An insubordinate officer knocked me out and sent me and three platoons of the Torchbearers away."

"He saved your life. His name was Leonid Ibragimov, I heard," said the general, patting his winter coat a few times before taking a seat on one of the chairs. "It would've been a waste if a fine infantry commander like you were to die. We need talents like you – you are on your way to Kaliningrad."

"But why?" she asked, approaching the train they were to board as she spoke over the communications channel.

"Young heroine, you are needed. Our men need a leader like you to motivate them, to challenge them. Your unit has been recalled to Kaliningrad to train new regiments of our men in warfare. The men you train will then be reassigned to you in the 27th Mechanised Infantry Division," he said as he looked at the map. "There is much work to be done, and you are one of the few who can inspire our men to do it."

She knew what she wanted, but orders were orders, and there were certain groups of men who would take very special care of those who did not obey. "Yes, Sir. Thank you for your time. Goodbye, and good luck."

"Good luck, Comrade," he said. With that, he hung up, and sat in front of the map. A cup of tea had earlier been laid on the table. Probably cold by now, he thought. He had spent at least two hours just staring at the map and thinking about what to do with these men. He took the teaspoon in his right hand, looking at the simple piece of silverware. Drops of tea fell from the end, and he observed as the drops fell into the tea, forming ripples.

And then a brainwave struck him. He dropped the spoon and immediately picked up the handset, eyes set on the map and finger roaming about on it.

**Geláre**

In the capital city, all was not well at all. Schmidt, the Fuhrer, was in a heated argument with his generals and threatening them with dismissal or execution for treason.

"Speed is absolutely crucial to our war efforts!" exclaimed Schmidt, pointing a finger at Hoffman. "Your incompetence and lack of courage will be the death of all of us! Where is a real man when you need one?!" The now red-faced Fuhrer was certainly not happy at all with the way things were happening.

"Mein Fuhrer, we are already fighting a multi-front war as it is," said Siegfried Schumacher, interceding for General Hoffman. "We cannot afford to divert our forces much more. We are running low on reserve forces. Tiperians have launched a general offensive against us and the People's Republic has caught us in guerrilla warfare. In a quagmire, if I might add. Mein Fuhrer, I would too second the motion of speed, but our men are stretched too thin. Allow them to catch up to the vanguard, reorganise and attack."

"As soon as Army Group Red is organised you are to launch a general offensive against the Reds. Strike to the north, and strike to the northeast. Cross the Shirma River and catch their capital, Svobodny Novgorod in a pincer!" Schmidt was asking for a lot.

At the speed they were going, their supply lines were stretched far too thin to catch up, even with railways, highways and improvements in technology. None dared to speak up against him – he was known to have killed many of his enemies on his way to the top, including some well-known generals. Some even speculated that he had slain the man who was found floating down the river.

"Mein Fuhrer," said Hoffman, speaking up. He was internally shaken by Schmidt's sharp rebuke, but calmed down after Schumacher cut in. No man dared like him to incur the Fuhrer's wrath. "Our industry and supply lines can hardly keep up with our advance. We are advancing towards the Shirma, but our army will not have enough supplies to advance much further than Kaliningrad. It would be wiser if we captured Kaliningrad first to create a staging area where we can gather our supplies. Our men are not equipped for a drawn-out winter war."

"Our troops will advance north," Schmidt adamantly repeated, placing both palms firmly on the table and standing up, staring down at his generals. "They will capture Kaliningrad. Our men on the Northeast Front will crush all in their way and cross the Shirma. We will be in time to celebrate the Winter Solstice in Svobodny Novgorod. The Reds will be no more!"

Hoffman and Schumacher looked at each other. Hoffman was genuinely concerned for the war effort. This could go two ways. Either absolute success, or total failure. Orders were orders, and Schmidt had many ways of making people obey his orders.

Schumacher, on the other hand, knew how to play the Fuhrer into his zone. As long as the ideas in his head came out as if it were the Fuhrer's own opinion, then they could save some breath. It was easier said than done, of course.

"As you wish, Mein Fuhrer," said Hoffman, taking in a deep breath. He hoped Field Marshal Dietrich Rommel would have better luck in the field than they were having in the war room.

**Crossroads**

The town hall had been cleaned up, and it was now being used as a field command centre. Its central position by the crossroads made it the most sensible place to put a command post, along with supplies and a field hospital.

Dietrich Rommel paced about in the room, his armoured corps assembled along the roads in columns that stretched for miles, avoiding the thawing snow and muddy ground. These tanks were made to be all-terrain, but the less contact with mud and snow, the better. It was difficult enough maintaining the vehicles in good condition. In extreme weather it was only going to get worse. Paved roads would also get them to their destinations sooner.

"Herr General," addressed a tank battalion commander, saluting. "The men are awaiting your orders." They had earlier crushed the Reds stationed on the outskirts of the city, discovering to their chagrin that the enemy force was much, much smaller than they had anticipated and that they had been wasting valuable time.

"Advance along the roads. Thirty kilometres out, advance in formation. Prepare for tank-on-tank combat," ordered Rommel as he put on his peaked cap. He stepped outside, into the heavy, cold rain. An orderly assisted him with his leather coat. "Thank you," he said with a smile, putting it on and walking into the rain. One of the infantry fighting vehicles had been converted into a mobile command post, and had been waiting for him at what was left of the town hall's charred and bloodied steps.

He liked to be close to the fighting, to feel and see for himself what his men were going through. He was a man who accepted no bias. He ate the same rations, wore the same clothes as his men, and suffered in the same weather. He took no unnecessary escorts either – all available forces were to be committed to the fighting at the front.

Wet roads lay ahead, and he was sure that there were many ambushes coming up. Their advancing armour, they were sure, would crush the enemy resistance. They were in a hurry to the north, and they would steamroll their way into enemy territory, capturing it no matter the cost.

He had formulated a plan in his head, for the attack formations of his troops and armoured units. They would approach in waves, spread out along the lines. IFVs would follow behind, carrying infantry inside them behind the armour.

These waves would form the shock troops at the front. The idea was to send in a few waves to poke at the enemy, finding out their strength and their defences. The next move, once that had been ascertained, would be to assemble his tanks into armoured wedges, punching through the enemy lines and creating openings for his forces to pour into.

This was a fine plan, except for one detail that the Field Marshal did not factor in. The Reds had a knack for doing the extraordinary and the unorthodox.

Half a million Coalition men were riding straight into an enemy trap.


	7. Rasputitsa

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 06**

"Keep going," ordered the tank platoon commander, Lieutenant Joachim Brandt, despite the muddy ground they were travelling on. "Keep an eye out for mire. There may be-" An explosion could be felt over the constant droning of the fuel-guzzling tank engine.

"Put that fire out! Stop screaming like a girl, you're embarrassing me!" a tank commander shouted. "Lieutenant, my genius tank driver just ran us into a minefield! We may be getting close. We've taken shrapnel, probably thrown a track and need help. Requesting support!"

"Keep your men together, Sergeant. They're on their way," he replied. He switched channels. "Get the medical team and engineers over to Dagger Four's position," commanded the lieutenant calmly and firmly. "Put the sappers to work, quickly."

The tank commander of Dagger Four quickly grabbed his driver by the shoulders, shaking him. "Hey! Stay with me, all right? Keep screaming, keep whining, but just don't go quiet!" He looked at the man. He was in bad shape. His left leg was missing from the ankle down. His right was intact, but twitching and bleeding profusely from a large piece of shrapnel stuck in his calf. The little embers burned out, revealing a hole in the bottom of the tank just beneath the driver's leg.

"Sarge?" the gunner called out.

"What?" he snapped. The worst thoughts started coming to mind as he tried to keep his driver conscious. "Come on, boy, don't give up on me."

"Enemy tanks at 12 o'clock! 1 klick and closing!" reported the gunner, looking through the sights. "Orders!"

"Fire at will! Do whatever you have to, just keep them away!"

The loader put the round in the tube and closed it. The gunner took aim, making a few inputs. The computer calculated the shot and the shot noisily left the tank main gun, cruising through the cold air and impacting the target on its front armour. The round went off, but it did little more than leave a black mark, evident when the smoke cleared.

"Load, quickly! It's gonna fire!" he said, panicking. "Come on!" The loader shook his head, taking in a deep breath before picking up the heavy tank gun round. He placed it in the breach. The gunner's jaw dropped open as he observed a large muzzle flash in the sights.

"Oh, shit."

Outside, the chaos had only begun. "Hurry up! We need to mark the minefield! Get the medics to the tank! Engineering team, prepare the tow!"

The men seemed more like bees, with so much to do just for one tank. The other tanks in the vicinity were avoiding the area and pulling westward in a tighter formation, advancing on the enemy lines.

"Get that tank ready to tow!"

The engineers approached the tank with their equipment ready. No sooner had they begun work on it than they were thrown ass-first into the mud. The tank turret flew right off the tank, its base a mess of torn and charred metal. It crushed one unfortunate soul as it landed.

"Shit…" said the engineering team leader. He reported to Lieutenant Brandt immediately. "Lieutenant… Dagger Four is lost. We are one engineer down. Turret landed on him. Orders, Sir?"

"Mark the minefields. Start clearing the mines. You will be called if you are needed," Brandt said in response before ending communications. "Fire!" The tank rocked backwards, spitting out a discarding sabot round. It stung an enemy tank in its side, punching through the armour, detonating inside and killing the crew. "One kill for us. Good shot, Sanders – keep up the good work."

"Thank you, Lieutenant!" the gunner beamed; a familiar feeling of absolute control came over him. It always felt like this after a successful shot – you would have no fear of the next, especially if your own commander was praising you. Lieutenant Brandt seemed to have a way of complimenting people on jobs well done that simply never failed to inspire better work.

"Remember to aim for the joint between the turret and hull, or the sides and rear. These MBTs have the same armour as ours." The gunner nodded, making no reply as the tank travelled over the less muddy ground. Their driver definitely had a good eye for such obstacles.

"Enemy trench, dead ahead!" shouted the gunner. "Orders!"

"Fire machineguns, suppress enemy infantry. Advance to 500 metres. When antitank weapons are neutralised, advance to 200 metres," ordered Brandt. His men acknowledged. "If you see a tank, kill it." The driver moved forward under heavy fire, leading the first wave of armour under heavy fire. A detachment of four King Raven II gunship-transports had also been deployed to assist them.

The pilots flying these gunships were aces. They had combat experience, were daring to the point of recklessness. Paired with these excellent twin-rotor aircraft, they were lethal on the field of battle. Two antitank missiles cruised across the sky, penetrating the top of a Red tank and destroying its turret. The second missile ensured that the crewmen inside returned home to visit their maker.

The helicopter was the worst enemy of any tank. It could stalk, hunt and eat your tank for breakfast, and then some. He was glad that these men were not on the other side.

"Enemy tanks are falling back! Advancing to range!" shouted the driver. Artillery shells were falling like raindrops, throwing clumps of mud and grass into the air, followed by clouds of smoke.

"Sanders, fire at will!" Brandt ordered. The gunner did not hesitate. The tank shook wildly, another sabot round leaving the main tank gun and finding its way into the hull of an enemy tank while the machineguns spewed hot lead at the trenches. "All IFVs to the front! Armour will support the assault!"

In less than a minute, the infantry fighting vehicles caught up with the tanks. They rumbled by without crossing their lines of fire, opening fire with their machinegun turrets and various other weapons. Troops fired from ports made in the sides of the IFVs.

They poured out of the vehicles soon after, under cover fire and smoke. Overhead, COG aircraft dropped bombs on enemy positions with impunity. There was no sign of enemy air units. Yet the COG forces were losing men, mainly to machinegun and artillery fire. The Reds had amassed hundreds of artillery pieces along the front. Not only was their equipment good, but the men were also well-trained.

"Forward to 100 metres," ordered Brandt. The tanks advanced closer to the trenches, providing cover for their troops. The smoke began to clear, giving them a good view of the battlefield again.

"The enemy is retreating!" reported one excited tank commander. "They're running scared, boys! Shoot them! Look at them run like cowards!" Shooting an enemy in the back. Disappointing, but necessary in the circumstance of a war. "Chase them down!"

"Belay that," hissed Brandt. "Let them run."

"But why? We have them on the run – we can crush their morale and send the next group running all the way back home!" The tank commander felt that this was absolutely unjustified. How could they let the enemy run? This was the perfect opportunity!

"When the enemy sees an opportunity to run, they are more likely to run than to fight. Let them go."

"Come, men! We're going to take them down with or without them!"

"You will obey your orders! Stand down!" Brandt shouted over the channel, angered. The tank ran off on its own, without any communication on their side. It was obvious that the man was not going to listen. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. Sanders. Tank track!"

"Yes, Sir!"

"I will not let the actions of one mad tank commander jeopardise our whole operation."

Sanders cringed with a shake of his head. The loader had already put the round in the breach. No turning back now. "Sorry, but I've gotta ruin your game, Sergeant." With a loud boom, the round sped away from the tank. It slammed into the rear of the tank's right track, splitting it in two. The vehicle shook, and some of its road wheels were blasted away.

"Bring us close," ordered the lieutenant. The driver followed his orders, approaching the disabled tank. He elected against destroying the vehicle. Each piece of equipment that could be saved should be saved. The tank pulled up next to the disabled one. The smell of burnt rubber permeated the air as Brandt climbed out of the hatch of his tank, walking over to the other one.

"What the hell did you-"

"Get out," Brandt interrupted, bringing his submachine gun to bear on the tank commander. The weapon was small, and had an extendable stock. It provided a lot of armour-piercing firepower for its small size, and also a high rate of fire. Its ammunition capacity was minimal, however, capped at 20 rounds, 21 with one in the chamber.

The sergeant climbed out of his tank, and the rest of his crew followed.

"What's he doing?" asked the driver. "Why's he got his gun out?"

"Beats me," replied Sanders with a shrug, looking at his tank commander. Other tanks had pulled alongside them, watching the scene as the four men were lined up next to the tank. Brandt stood on top of its turret.

"The penalty for insubordination is death," declared the stern lieutenant, bringing the extended stock to his shoulder. The entire platoon watched as Brandt, towering over the four tank crewmen, pulled the trigger.

"No!" they shouted. There was virtually no reaction time to escape – the bullets fired so fast, and his aim was so sure. The sergeant, wide-eyed, could only stare at the lieutenant as the bullets punctured his uniform and blood gushed from his insides. The lieutenant calmly pulled from inside his shirt another magazine, loading the weapon and chambering the first round. He stepped over to his tank, climbing in and closing the hatch behind him.

None of the men said a word. They dared not even shoot a glance at their tank commander, for fear that he might shoot back – with a gun.

"Form up," ordered Brandt. "Engineers, retrieve the tank." The tanks were to take the lead again, followed by the IFVs with the infantry in them. This small network of trenches had been abandoned. Tank traps – or hedgehogs, as they were otherwise called – were observed further down the road and in the fields – a sure sign that there were more along the way. This was only the beginning; he could sense it in his gut.

**Southern Front Headquarters**

Yeremenko smiled, as he saw his staff updating the map and describing to him the movements of his infantry and armour divisions. The headquarters was now abuzz with activity. Staff officers and clerks moved from one part of the room to another. They spoke into field radios and telephones, taking notes on paper. The ever-increasing piles of unprocessed paperwork showed just how busy they were.

The enemy was smart. He had not committed the entirety of his force to the fighting just yet. The more he probed, the more they would retreat. By now the enemy was taking the highway leading north, fighting through the entrenchments, obstacles and barricades they had painstakingly set up to buy time and waste their energy. Their efforts were paying off.

Rasputitsa – or General Mud, as some Northern commanders like to call it, was also playing tricks on the enemy. Some areas were completely inaccessible because of mud, and many COG tanks, according to snipers and forward observers, had been caught in thick, soft layers of mud that provided poor traction and caused the armoured units to sink into the ground. A main battle tank caught in the mud was no more than a steel coffin in the heat of battle.

He had deployed the Third Air Corps to the front. They were launching attacks from a nearby airbase. The Third Air Corps consisted mainly of King Raven II gunship-transport helicopters, refitted for the coming winter. These tank hunting machines were lethal in the right hands. Fighter patrols escorted them overhead, and Thanatos airborne artillery platforms had also been deployed to the front, to provide fire support where it was needed and could not be reached by artillery on the ground.

"Comrade General! The front line has made contact with the enemy!" shouted a staff officer from across the room. The general nodded, and watched as other staff officers at the table groaned and slapped their foreheads. They erased previously marked COG positions and marked them with new ones on the map.

Yeremenko had devised an ingenious plan. The Southern Front would hold its fortified positions. They would retreat progressively, intentionally. This was made known to the men, but with specific instructions to only retreat when the order was given.

The People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs – or the NKVD, as they were historically called in an ancient communist army – had been deployed to deal with those who did not obey orders. They were armed with light machineguns, pistols, rifles and submachine guns, and permitted to kill Red troops who were, by their judgement, traitors. This included defeatists and cowards, and those who retreated before the order was given.

He hated the thought of these people. All they knew were politically charged motivational speeches, betrayal, backstabbing and above all, cold-blooded murder. But they were a necessary tool in this coming conflict. These people were all too difficult to manage with only words. Force and terror were the best discipline for the disobedient. Those who wanted to fight because of their own reasons need not be worried about.

The overall strategy he had developed from observing the tea droplets fall into the teacup was now in effect. He would lead the COG forces across the muddy lands of the north, retreating the Red Army from position to position, trench to trench. The COG fascists would have to fight their way forward, with little, if any rest.

With each victory the enemy would grow more complacent. With each retreat the Red positions grew stronger. Each trench and position was progressively more fortified and well-defended than the previous one. The retreating men would regroup in the next trench, adding to its combat power. When the time came for that trench to fall, they would retreat to the next line, through the minefields, mud and marked sectors of artillery fire. The process would repeat itself for hundreds of kilometres to come.

The idea was to run the enemy out of steam. In their headlong dash, they would overlook many things, eyes set on the city that sat on the Shirma. The enemy would look and feel like they were steamrolling across the Red positions. In fact they were, but at the same time, this was leading to a build-up of Red strength. Each position would be more difficult to get through, and more blood would be spilled in the process of doing so.

Lieutenant General Fedor Voroshilov reported his army's status over the field radio. "Comrade General! I am in position."

"Understood, Comrade. Hold fast and remain unseen. Use the new camouflage system," instructed Yeremenko. He was referring to the multi-spectrum modular camouflage, which would camouflage armoured vehicles against observation, against thermal and even infra-red sights. It would render them virtually invisible to the enemy, even on the go. It would be incredibly difficult to spot the vehicle, as long as the right camouflage scheme was attached – it could be placed on top of a vehicle's armour, or draped over it like a blanket. It could be easily removed as well. Such an invention was paramount to their success in this battle. They were depending on every advantage that they had.

"Understood." Fedor adjusted the fur hat on his head, sitting in the cottage in the woods. His tank units were not far away. He was as close to the fighting as his staff members would allow him to get. Close enough to observe as the fighting unfolded.

For the past day, the gunfire and artillery exchanges had been ferocious and ceaseless. It had been incredibly difficult to get any sleep at all. He had somehow managed to get so tired that he simply fell asleep, with no regard for the cacophony of noises. He knew from experience that they were too far away to be bothered with. Now, however, it was a completely different story.

"Fire!" ordered Lieutenant Brandt. The sabot round left the tube, flying forward at its target. In a split second the sabot carrying the kinetic energy round split apart, discarding itself and leaving only the flying round. It was designed to encounter minimal air resistance as it made its way to its target, retaining as much kinetic energy as possible.

The round hit the turret of a Red tank. It squashed itself against the armour, contacting it in an area the size of a coin. The immense pressure combined with the speed at which the round hit the armour was simply too great. A hole was torn in its side, and the round penetrated the thick armour, killing its occupants and damaging its insides.

"Load sabot!" The order had become so familiar by now that it was like a broken record playing over and over again in the loaders head. Sanders laughed, observing the smoking wreck that they had made out of the Red tank. He opened fire with the coaxially mounted machinegun, spitting dozens of bullets at the enemy infantry.

"Lieutenant Brandt. Your platoon is to halt. Form a wedge with the rest of your battalion," came the order. "Break through the enemy lines!"

"Finally," he said, sounding somewhat relieved. "Dagger Platoon, cease forward movement! Maintain suppressive fire, and form a wedge with the rest of the company." The wedge was formed soon after, made out of 30 tanks. The first row had two, and the last row had 10. The IFVs would follow behind in lines, using the tanks as cover. With full confidence, the COG men rode forward into their anticipated victory.

"Forward, comrades! For the Fatherland! For the free people!" shouted another platoon commander. Brandt smiled to himself; many men wanted to be known for their efforts and be promoted for them. Again, his tank was right at the front of the formation. He liked to be the one to lead, to provide an example for his men to follow.

"Haha! The enemy is retreating! Look at them pack up and go!" Brandt confirmed this, observing two light tanks pulling away from the fighting. Was it really so easy?

A yellow muzzle flash. A great tremor threatening to shake the tank apart. Orange flame and black smoke rising from the tank next to his. Apparently, it wasn't.

"Enemy tanks! In the trees!" reported one other tank. The tanks now had to shift around the wreckage of the destroyed vehicle. It could have been his, and he was thankful that it was not. "It's a whole tank battalion!"

"What? A tank battalion?" inquired Brandt.

"Affirmative! We see at least 100 muzzle flashes from the woods to the east!"

"From the west, too! The enemy is attacking from the forest!"

From the forest? These Reds were crazy! "Fall back! Everyone, fall back in reverse! Keep up the fire if you wanna live! Deploy smoke," ordered the company commander. "Move! Move!" He then switched channels to report to Command. "Command, our battalion's taking a beating. We've been flanked from the woods on both sides – two enemy tank regiments!"

"What?! Two regiments through the woods?" Rommel was caught by off-guard, though not surprised. "Deploying an ambush from the forest… Ingenious. Form an inverted wedge and move in reverse. Two tank divisions have been deployed to the west and two to the east. We will swallow the Reds and eat them for dinner!"

"Yes, Sir! Inverted wedge!" the company commander ordered. The tank crews, drilled in manoeuvre, did this with ease. They were thankful that their training had come in useful, for once. A V-shaped wedge had now been formed with the company's 29 tanks, as if to receive the enemy attack with open arms.

"Stay away from the wedge. Remain in the woods; do not proceed out of cover until orders are given. Air support is on the way," ordered Fedor. One Thanatos aircraft loomed overhead, and punished the COG armoured corps with heavy artillery and showers of Gatling cannon fire that ripped straight through the IFVs' comparatively thin shells. The Thanatos quickly retreated before enemy fighters could come into play, leaving the tank hunting to the King Raven II gunships.

The tanks exchanged fire like the massive armies of infantry of many millennia ago, which formed ranks and marched straight into cannon and gun fire on the battlefield like idiots. It was a scene of utter chaos and pure, uncensored violence. Men were killing each other as if it were nobody's business.

Antitank missiles flew to and fro, with many of them coming from the Red trenches. Long-range antitank missiles cruised overhead, punching through the thin top armour of tank turrets right inside to kill the crews. Helicopters engaged each other and armoured vehicles in combat. IFVs raised their large-calibre chain guns to fire on enemy helicopters, while fighters engaged in deadly dogfights overhead. Artillery pounded both COG and Red positions, throwing mud and clumps of grass high into the air, and setting many vehicles on fire.

The fighting went on for an hour, at least. It was quite a stalemate. The Reds would not move out of the woods, and were constantly on the move while inside cover. The COG had numerical superiority, but by the time they brought it to bear against the Reds, the latter had already retreated to a safe distance, flanking them or returning to engage later on.

Brandt wiped sweat from his brow, still shocked by the unorthodox Red tactics. Their tanks were difficult, if not impossible to spot. They could only be detected when they fired, from the muzzle flash of the main tank guns. Tanks were not made for fighting in the woods. They were meant to be used in open ground, where their main guns could aim and fire without terrain restrictions. At the rate they were going, defeat was a very real possibility. But almost as soon as the fire erupted from the woods, it ceased.

"Herr General, the enemy have retreated. Do we give chase?"

"Nein. Stay the course; assault the trenches. They may be leading us into another ambush. The hard way may be the only way." Rommel looked at the field radio, and took it in his hand to send a transmission to the leaders back in the capital city. "Mein Fuhrer. We require reinforcements – the Reds are employing unorthodox tactics and stratagems. We are confident of conquering the enemy, but we will take heavy losses."

"We are committing as many able men as we can to the fighting," replied Schmidt. "Reinforcements will converge on the crossroads. Half will be given to you; the other half is for the Northeast Front. Consider yourselves the vanguard, paving the way for the rest of our glorious troops to victory!"

He thought about what he said to the corps commander.

The hard way may be the only way…

And it was.

The COG forces' path to the far North would be paved in blood.

**Southern Front Headquarters**

Yeremenko felt that he probably had never heard better news in his life. His strategy was working. It was throwing the enemy into confusion, with attacks from all dimensions of the war – from above, from below and on the surface.

He was hearing reports that the enemy tanks were wary of chasing the Second Tank Army, for fear of ambushes. They were right. Infantry armed with antitank weapons lay in wait to take them off-guard in their confusion.

His men, under his instruction, were making the enemy scared and confused. Yeremenko smiled, taking a sip of hot tea. He could almost taste success as he did, observing the map and hearing positive reports from along the Southern Front.

He could not have been more wrong.


	8. Hammerfall

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 07**

Field Marshal Dietrich Rommel took in a deep breath. The bastards were toying with him. This was an insult to his heritage!

He had studied the Reds' patterns. They were definitely trying their best to conserve their armour. He was sure that they were unable to cope with heavy tank losses, from this deduction. He therefore ordered his helicopter fleets to cover his tanks, hunting down enemy tank units and spraying deadly bullets all over the enemy lines. The artillery units, he had deployed closer to the front lines to provide support.

"Herr General, our airmen are awaiting orders. They are ready to move at a moment's notice," reported one of his staff. Rommel nodded.

"Flatten the forests. Burn everything – leave them nowhere to hide."

A fleet of bombers, with fighter escorts, flew overhead.

"Control, this is Hotel Squadron Leader, callsign Blue Blazes. Target received. Confirm target, over."

"Roger, Blue Blazes. Target is confirmed. Raze the forest."

"Roger, Control." With the press of a button, the bomb bay doors opened. As the bomber cruised ahead at high altitude, the computers calculated the approximate area in which the unguided bombs would land. "Bombs away, bombs away." With that, dozens of bombs were released over the forests. The entire bomber squadron unleashed its payload on the woods below and on the trench networks.

It was a sight to behold. Columns of smoke rose from fires that had started from the bombing. What was once a dense forest was now reduced to piles of charred, fallen wood. Carpet bombing had made its return.

By nightfall, the heavy rain had stopped. The bombing and shelling had been going on for hours. With the helicopters leading the attack, Rommel ordered his men to advance. He had seen through the enemy's strategem. He committed the full force of his armour to punching a large hole in their front, and pushing forward all the way.

**Southern Front Headquarters**

Yelena swept her hair back, pulling her long, black hair through her scrunchie. She then adjusted the pilotka – or garrison cap – on her head. She liked this hat; it looked nice and suited the uniform.

It was now the standard headdress for non-combat staff, reviving the uniform of millennia past. Coloured lines on the top of the pilotka cap indicated which branch the person belonged to. Alternative acceptable headgear were the ushanka, which were the fur hats commonly used in the North, the balaclava a kind of knitted ski mask, and of course the steel/kevlar helmet, a mainstay of all modern forces.

Many of these were traditional winter wear, except for the pilotka. It had only recently been revived as a standard headdress, mainly because it looked good, and was cheap to produce. Much of what the Reds now had, had been manufactured in secret years before the coup. Fighting had been expected, so weapons and armour were manufactured and stolen. Revolution demanded change, and thus change was introduced, starting from uniforms.

Red uniforms were made cheaper, but still felt good to wear and were much simpler than the COG uniforms. These uniforms mainly consisted of simple olive drab trousers, tunics, black boots and headgear. Each soldier was expected to have his own valenki footcloths. For women non-combatants, they had the dubious honour of wearing skirts. In winter, however, they naturally preferred trousers and boots.

All soldiers were now being issued with these simple uniforms. Shinel woollen coats, and Telogreika – body warmers made out of cheap and easy to manufacture, were also standard winter wear now. They would do well in resisting the cold, and could be supplied to more soldiers than more high-tech winter wear.

"Katrina!" she called out, her arm raised and a piece of paper in her hand. The latter turned, eyebrows high and looking out for whomever called her. "Here!" Katrina hurried over, and Yelena handed the piece of paper to her. "I need you to send this message."

"Send it to whom?" she asked, taking the paper and reading it.

"The NKVD and prison authorities," she answered. It needed no further explaining. Everything else was written on the piece of paper.

"They… they're releasing prisoners?!" She read on. Now she knew why the entire Southern Front headquarters was in such a mess. When she looked up, Yelena had packed up and left, carrying with her a pile of documents to be burnt.

The Southern Front had gone into retreat.

**Gulag Camp 122**

"Gather here, you filthy slugs!" shouted a commissar into his loudhailer. "Gather in the courtyard!" He stood on the bed of a truck, talking down to all the men who were gathering before him. A platoon of NKVD men, armed with submachine guns and rifles, stood ready to gun down any prisoners who misbehaved. "You now have a chance at freedom!" Others dragged their feet across the wet, muddy ground, assembling with the rest of the inmates.

The men working in the labour camps looked at each other. Their eyes shone with a spark that none had seen in many years. Their yellowed, even blackened teeth showed in wide smiles, but none of them could be bothered about their personal hygiene at this point. The hungry and tired convicts would grab any chance they had at freedom from this hell.

"The Motherland needs warriors! Fearsome warriors to lead the way as they attack the fascist animals that invade our land! In return for your efforts, after the war is over you will be granted a pardon and may return to your lives and families," the commissar offered. He personally did not give a damn about these men. They were the lowest of the low, to have been sent to this out-of-the-way camp to perform slave labour. "You will be given food, water and plenty of ammunition. You will be given warm clothing, and you will be sent at the first opportunity to fight for your freedom!"

Sergei Medvedev, a bear of a man who lived up to his surname, stood amongst the cheering prisoners and laughed. Finally, a chance to get out and do something else! Anything was better than rotting away here.

"All who wish to join our compatriots in the fight for liberty and freedom, come forward! Get on the trucks!" ordered the commissar as he hopped off and went to the passenger seat in front. The cheering, rowdy crowd gleefully boarded the trucks, sitting on the cold, wet steel truck beds. Sergei climbed aboard last, barely squeezing onto the truck. There were a few doubtful prisoners huddled together, discussing amongst themselves whether or not to take the opportunity and the risk.

Orange and yellow flashes erupted as the trucks started to move. The prisoners watched as those who had not boarded the trucks screamed, gunned down mercilessly by the NKVD platoon. Three infantry fighting vehicles escorted the convoy of smelly, dirty prisoners away from the camp, which was now completely devoid of all life and activity. They were there to ensure that the prisoners kept in line. Any who tried to escape would be shot.

Sergei muttered to himself, hoping that he would not be caught by those bastards. He would show them what he was made of. The Medvedevs were not to be trifled with!

He would fight for this nation. He would give it his all, for its liberty.

And in time to come, he would claim his freedom.

**Southern Front**

"We are taking fire, Comrade General! We must leave, now!" urged one of Yeremenko's staff officers. He tugged at his general's sleeve. "Come!"

"Burn everything!" ordered the general furiously as he left the room. He was unsure how to react to his compatriots. "Everything! All documents must be destroyed!"

"Yes, Comrade General – we have fed the documents into the fireplace. Now let's go!" The officer ushered his general away from the fighting. He took in a deep breath and sighed as they left the building, quickly climbing into the waiting car. The earth rocked again and again as COG artillery shells pummelled the city.

Rommel had caught them with their trousers down, ordering his armour to charge forward. In the interest of conserving tank forces, the Second Tank Army had been pulled back after losing over 30% of their main battle tanks.

The lines remained and the soldiers continued fighting, but the headquarters had to be moved. They were in range of COG guns, which was completely unacceptable. The car rolled down the road, escorted by a few IFVs. The rest remained to fight. They would give the COG one hell of a fight, as they had pledged when they took up arms and were sent to the front.

Though certainly outwitted on the battlefield, Yeremenko was sure he would have the last laugh. "Order them to destroy the cities, towns, farms, everything. Take all that can be taken now, and then destroy it. Make sure it cannot be used again."

"Sir?"

"Do it. Now! The fascists cannot be allowed to take anything that belongs to the People!" If he was to be defeated in this battle, he was determined to win another kind – attrition. The COG men were already on the outskirts of the city, hammering their men hunkered down in their muddy holes and trenches. "Scorched earth. Leave NOTHING." He greatly emphasised the last word of his sentence. His intentions were abundantly clear.

The general was going to starve the COG, even at the cost of their own men.

The bloody, brutal fighting lasted for several hours. There was no rest for either side, as NKVD troops demolished factories and food processing plants with explosives while their compatriots fought for their lives.

Civilians fled the city by the droves, taking what little they could with them as they marched along the roads. Women took their children in their arms, forming the large majority of the fleeing civilians. All the able-bodied men had been given arms and were staying to fight fanatically for their freedom.

"Soldiers of the Red Army! Put down your weapons and surrender!" urged a COG officer in a passionate speech. "Your generals have left you to die. They have given you nothing! They give you no food, no water, and no ammunition. They have no compassion!"

Some of the soldiers paid attention to this. These men had lived in the North all their lives and wanted nothing more to do with the brutal COG government. At the same time, they felt injustice on their side. Their superiors had left them behind, saving their own hide while leaving them to the wolves.

"What do you think?" asked one young man, putting down his rifle and looking at his platoon members. "I don't want to die here, not in this muddy hellhole. Not now. I have a wife and two beautiful young girls."

"I don't give a damn," an older soldier said with a stern face, shaking his head in disillusionment. He looked as if he was empty on the inside. There was no spark of life in his eyes, or in the way he spoke. It seemed as if he was dead already. "There is no point. I have nothing left. All three of my sons are dead."

"Then come with me! Why throw your life away for this political bullshit?" urged the young man, climbing out of the trench and crouching low. He offered his hand to the older man, who shook his head with a faint smile.

"You go, young one. This old man wants one last chance to shine."

"Suit yourself," the young man said. Others followed him, climbing out of their trenches and dropping their weapons. "Let's go, comrades! Let's stop this hopeless fighting!"

"Get back here!" boomed a voice over the loudhailer. "By order of Great Comrade Kalinin, you are to hold your positions! No surrender! No retreat!"

"Yeah? Fuck you!" the young one shouted, showing the NKVD officer his middle finger. "Go die for your leader, you faggot!" Encouraged by this act of defiance, other men cried out, shouting their grievances at the men in the trenches and at the NKVD men behind them.

"All of you, get back inside your holes!" he ordered. "Stop, or we fire! No mercy for cowards! Anyone caught deserting his post will be shot on sight!" He signalled to the men manning the large-calibre machineguns. They began spooling the barrels. "This is your final warning! Turn back!" The warning went unheeded. An entire company's worth of men had deserted the fortified lines, walking proudly past astounded Reds with their hands up, advancing towards enemy positions with every intention of surrendering.

A machinegun opened fire, the rapid, repeated sound of its bullets fired ringing out loud. The deserters were quickly cut down, running back toward the nearest trench they could find. Some fell into the trenches with only half their torso left, their guts spilling onto the mud.

The bleeding, dying men writhed in agony, some flailing about and some simply lying there, resigned to their fate and bleeding to death with their guts spilling out by their sides.

The commissar looked around, to the left and right. That wasn't one of his machineguns.

They all realised then, and it struck them deep inside. Their hearts sank to the pits of their stomachs.

The enemy wasn't taking prisoners.

**Northern Front**

"Who opened fire?" Brandt wanted an answer, and he wanted it now. He shouted again over the communications channel. "Who opened fire?!" He was infuriated. Now the enemy would never surrender. This was one of the few times the normally calm and collected man would get excited. "We offered them surrender. Who was the bastard who ruined that?" Nobody wanted to own up. "Fine. No leave is to be taken – all men of Dagger Platoon are to be confined to quarters."

He was sure it was one of his men. They were again leading from the front, and there was nobody else who could have fired at them from this range. He would have seen them. Groans could be heard over the open communications channel. Most of these came from young men, many of whom were just married or had girlfriends they wanted to talk to badly. Older soldiers – tank commanders – could only shake their heads and laugh. These young ones had much to learn.

"Dagger Platoon, advance! Liberate these fools from their misery!" ordered the battalion commander.

"Roger. Forward!" Brandt motioned with his right arm and open hand without even realising it. Then he smiled to himself. Nobody could see his hand in motion; they were too busy manning their stations. Their tanks rolled forward in the mud, past the marked minefields. Gunships flew overhead, battering the Red positions and turning the trenches into lakes of blood. Artillery crews adjusted fire, raining shells on the Reds.

The first line of trenches was quickly overrun despite fierce, fanatical resistance. Bullets harmlessly bounced off their tank armour, barely leaving a scratch. The COG forces were set to steamroll over the Reds, flattening them as they drove over the trenches.

"Kill the fascist, kill the fascist, kill the fascist," a soldier repeatedly said to himself, shivering in his foxhole as the tank approached. He hoped they had not seen him. He did not want to die by getting his head run over and crushed underneath a tank. It was a horrible way to go. "Kill the fascist. Kill the fascist. Kill the fascist. Kill the fascist." His antitank mine sat in his hands, leaning against his body as he slumped against the side of the hole until he was facing the sky.

The ground vibrated, a sure sign that the tank was near. He shut his eyes, praying that it was a bad dream and that it would all go away. He wanted to go home. He did not want to be here. Moments later, the foxhole was in darkness. The tank was almost directly over him. "Kill the fascist for the Motherland!" He dropped the mine right on the ground by the back end of the hole. He was crushed against the earth as the tank ran over him as if he weren't even there.

The tank ran over the mine, which exploded and tore a great hole in its underside. It slowed to a stop moments after. Flames and shrapnel destroyed everything that was inside.

Lieutenant Brandt would fight no more.

COG forces advanced on the city. The Reds retreated and regrouped in the city. The COG overran what little resistance they encountered and swiftly took the city, bombing it and shelling it to bits. Prisoners were herded like animals to the rear, and the remains of the city were now the Northern Front's new staging area and headquarters.

"Herr General. The enemy has destroyed all food stores. All we could find were a few barrels of Imulsion that they forgot, and some medical supplies in the hospital," reported an officer, saluting Rommel when he stepped out of the vehicle. "We are moving our wounded to the hospital right now."

"What have you done with the patients in the hospital?" There would be a great squeeze for space if they moved the wounded in right now.

"Well… we killed them."

"What?!" exclaimed Rommel.

"There would be no space for our men if we left their patients where they were. So we took them outside. They made a lot of noise, so we shot them. Men, women, children." The officer looked at Rommel as if he had done a good job and was expecting a reward, or at most a sharp rebuke. He got more than he bargained for. Rommel pulled out his pistol and brutally clubbed the officer in the nose with it.

"You fool! Do you know how difficult it is to maintain our already poor reputation in this land? Do you want to unite the enemy against us?" The officer fell to the floor, clutching his nose and shutting his eyes in reaction to the pain. Rommel stood over the man, pistol pointed at his unprotected chest. "You idiot!" He bent down and reached for the officer's shoulder straps. He quickly pulled the ranks from his shoulders, and stomped him on the abdomen for good measure. "Take him away."

Rommel spat as he put the pistol back in its holster. He had had enough of these fools who killed without discrimination. They only knew how to make a mess of his operations.

He spent the rest of that day setting up his new headquarters and securing the city, giving the supplies a bit of time to catch up. The airbase and train station here was quickly seized to aid in transportation of supplies and wounded. These would come in useful in future.

Army Group North now had some time to catch up with the COG vanguard army. They numbered three million in total, inclusive of non-combatant administrative, medical and logistics staff. They would bring with them fresh troops, supplies and more armour. Things were looking up for the COG.

Over the next few days, the COG struggled northwards through the rain and mud, doing their best not get bogged down in the rough terrain. The Reds seemed to so effortlessly navigate this place that it was unbelievable.

Yeremenko maintained his strategy. The COG only had one hundred more kilometres to cover until they reached Kaliningrad, and he still had to buy time. The Third Army was not ready for operations, and neither was any other army they were assembling and training.

Kaliningrad, in the meantime, became a hub of activity. More and more troops poured into the city. Prisoners taken from the gulag camps and the city prison, under NKVD supervision, worked day and night, rain or shine, in the small towns and villages around Kaliningrad. They dug trenches, welded and placed tank obstacles, and laid antitank and antipersonnel mines. Many men died of exhaustion and starvation, but it was nothing new. Prison labourers were not treated well, and therefore not expected to survive long under any conditions.

Rings of defenses were formed around the city. Roads leading to Kaliningrad and bridges across ravines and smaller rivers were destroyed. Airfields on the outskirts were busy as beehives. Helicopters and aircraft flew in troops, supplies and vehicles. Tanks crossed the Shirma over the hydroelectric dams and over the railway bridge, mainly by train.

Everyone in Kaliningrad knew something big was coming, with all the defences being constructed around it. The city was placed under martial law. Day and night factory workers toiled, making equipment, ammunition and tanks. If they refused, they were told at gunpoint that the enemy was knocking on their door, and that money would be useless if they were not there to receive it. Many workers were said to have been very inspired by the presence of both the NKVD and the enemy. Apparently the chairman of the workers' council said that he preferred not to die a traitor, and would rather die a hero.

War did not take long to come to Kaliningrad. With one week and one day left until winter set in, the COG forces appeared on the horizon. Red troops beat a hasty retreat to the city outskirts, where their defensive lines and bunkers were located.

At 0600, Northern Standard Time, 2000 COG artillery pieces fired the first of many barrages. Bombers, tanks and helicopters led the attack, brutally killing any in their way. The blood of thousands was spilt. There was no discrimination between civilian and combatant. As far as Schmidt was concerned, all who did not surrender to the COG were the enemy.

And the enemy was to be crushed.

"The enemy defences are tight and stubborn, mein Fuhrer," reported Hoffman, pointing out the defensive positions in the grasslands around the city that the COG armies were having difficult penetrating. Field Marshal Dietrich Rommel had full control of the Northern Front now, and was under orders to make it a point to destroy the city, and capture it at any cost.

No mercy was to be given. If they did not surrender upon demand, they were to be slaughtered like pigs and an example was to be made out of them. This directive, straight from the Fuhrer, was disseminated throughout the entire COG military.

"The enemy's resistance is strongest here," noted Hoffman, pointing to the mountain just to the south of Kaliningrad. "Our tanks have broken through the enemy position and are poised to assault Hill 333." The number denoted its height in metres above sea level, at its highest point. "They can see everything that goes on from this position, and they have the high ground. They can call in artillery wherever they want, on whichever targets they want. Bunkers and trenches have been dug into the side of this mountain, and our troops report heavy resistance. General Aleksei Korlov's First Tank Army is located to the north of it. A brigade of that army, under General Fedor Voroshilov, has been attempting to flank our positions in the field but failed."

"So you have been unable to capture the mountain. I know of its strategic value. I have studied the maps and your notes on them in your report," said Schmidt. He seemed rather displeased, despite his relatively calm demeanour. "I have a solution to your problem."

"What might that be, mein Fuhrer?" asked Hoffman, looking at Schmidt and Schumacher. He often looked toward the latter for his silent opinion on the Fuhrer.

"Use the Hammer of Dawn." The suggestion had come up before, but not under such circumstances. It was an option that would save them a lot of blood and trouble. "Do it. Raze the city to the ground."

"But, mein Fuhrer… The political repercussions!"

"I don't give a shit about the political repercussions! You're a general. Your job is to conquer the enemy, so do your job and do it well!" Hoffman sighed. He had hit the nail on the head again. "Use the Hammer of Dawn. Make an example out of all the fools in Kaliningrad." There was no speaking against it. The Fuhrer had made up his mind long before he suggested the idea.

Bright orange beams descended from the sky. They cut across the fields, turning the plains into a black, ugly expanse. Hill 333 resembled an unclean mop more than it did the beautiful mountain it once was. Not a tree was left standing on it.

The Hammer of Dawn set fire to Kaliningrad. Skyscrapers crumbled on themselves, their supports molten right through by the beams that descended from the heavens. Coordinates were all that were needed for such an orbital strike.

The world watched as news correspondents filmed and broadcasted live the burning of Kaliningrad from the other side of the Shirma, where there was no fighting just yet.

"Oh my God! Look!" exclaimed a female reporter excitedly, directing the cameraman towards the orange beams that had descended upon Kaliningrad, burning everything in their wake and leaving black trails as they went. "The monsters! They are burning our city! There are civilians still inside those buildings!"

The news spread faster than wildfire. The whole world knew of this. The COG was using the Hammer of Dawn to burn Kaliningrad to the ground, and there were member nations who would not stand for it. Amongst these was the country of Vulcania, located just south of the northeast mountain range. It renounced its affiliation with the COG, choosing neutrality. It withdrew all its men from the fighting, and did not permit COG supplies to pass through its territory.

It launched the anti-satellite missiles that it had developed in secret. Fifty years ago, after hostilities with the Locust abruptly ended, Vulcania had proposed the discontinuation of the use of the Hammer of Dawn. Ten years ago that plan was put into action, and the COG agreed to destroy all Hammer of Dawn satellites. When Schmidt took power, he insisted on keeping it. But Valcania continued developing the weapons anyway.

The Reds received news of this.

"The people of the Soviet Union express their deepest gratitude, Mister President," said Kalinin to the leader of Vulcania. "We understand that it must be difficult for you to turn your back on former allies."

"Hogwash. These men are no allies of mine. They are animals. But do not mistake this as an act of appeasement on the part of my nation. We will not side with you. We are strictly neutral and acting in our own interest. Consider the destruction of the Hammer of Dawn a favour in the interest of human rights."

"We understand, Mister President and we thank you once again. Do svidanya."

"Goodbye, Mister Kalinin. I pray your troops fare well in fair battle." The screen went black, and Kalinin turned to the Stavka members. The new development was to their advantage. Yeremenko's mistake was forgivable.

"Zhukov. What do you think?"

"This is perfect. The COG supply lines are completely cut off. Whatever forces have gotten through are limited. Travelling so far north in such a short time has stretched their supply lines thin and their logistics have definitely become a mess. Yeremenko's strategy was a success, in my view. They have been fighting ever since they crossed the mountains." Timoshenko nodded in agreement with Zhukov.

"What is the status of the Third Army?"

"Not yet, Comrade Kalinin. None of the new armies are yet operational. We need a few more months to properly train these men." By 'train', what he really meant was indoctrination. Only an army animated by the same spirit from head to toe had any chance of success at all. That, and they did not want any more unnecessary losses. Manpower was limited, although they had plenty. It would take more time to train new troops to fight. Time that they no longer had.

"I see. Pull any garrison forces you can and send them to meet the enemy at Kaliningrad and on the Southeast Front. Their forces are spread so thin it's like a piece of bread with a fingertip's worth of butter. Absolutely tasteless. But we cannot be arrogant. Henceforth, this is the directive. There is no land beyond the Shirma."

They understood what this meant. Kaliningrad was not to fall at any cost. It would have severe military, economical and political repercussions if that were to happen. The Hammer of Dawn attack had razed half the city. Schools, nurseries, hospitals, workers' housing, industrial stores – all these things had been destroyed without regard for anything or anyone.

This was to prove Schmidt's greatest mistake since taking power.

The order was given: Not one step backwards. No retreat. No surrender. No mercy. No remorse. The fascist monsters were to be killed like the demons they were.

As far as Red troops were concerned, from the Shirma River, there was only one direction.

Forward.


	9. WELCOME TO HELL

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 08**

"The Hammer of Dawn attack reduced our strength in Kaliningrad to 100 000," reported Timoshenko. He was rather concerned about the strength on the front now. The Hammer of Dawn was no longer a threat – in the North, at least – but the enemy forces were quickly gaining ground. "That leaves the men on the south bank outnumbered 10 to 1. They have commenced heavy bombing and shelling of the city itself. We have set up field hospitals and heavy defences around the areas that the enemy have not penetrated. The western district – or what is left of it – is currently under heavy enemy fire. Our men have garrisoned the area surrounding the Univermag in the east."

"The Univermag… large building, commands a good view of the intersection of the roads passing Red Square," Kalinin said to himself. He looked at the map and he was infuriated. Over the past week, the enemy had made much progress. The COG artillery and bomber fleets had flattened many parts of Kaliningrad. Buildings came down on themselves, unable to support their own weight any longer.

"I regret to inform you, Comrade Kalinin, that the enemy is still pushing forward. Red Square is only a kilometre away from the Shirma River. If the enemy takes the river-" Timoshenko did not get to finish his sentence.

"There will be no talk about if the enemy takes positions on the river!" insisted Kalinin, smacking the armrest on his chair. Blood rushed to his face in his anger. "Do whatever it takes. Use all means necessary. Bring out the hovercrafts, the ferries and any available modes of transport. Transport our men across the river straight into the fight! Kaliningrad must and will be held at any cost!"

The message was clear, but reality seemed to be insisting against Kalinin's ideals. The Twelfth Guards Regiment, 5000-strong, was isolated in the eastern district of Kaliningrad. They had no armour support, and no helicopters. All that they had were the Ballista long-range howitzers that were located on the north bank to support them.

This was the case in many places in Kaliningrad. Entire divisions were encircled and isolated within the city, stubbornly refusing to give in to the enemy. Rumours and stories from the Southern Front – now renamed the Kaliningrad Front – had spread like crazy, reaching the ears of fearful conscripts and militiamen. It was said that if they were to surrender, the enemy would cut them up with their chainsaws and cook them because they had no rations left.

That was the story they were feeding the Kaliningrad defenders, in the hope that it would inspire some fear or anger in them, or both. Emotions were a powerful thing, and this would prove to be the driving force behind the Reds as they fought for their city.

It was not much of a city now. Large portions of it had been burned and cooked away when the Hammer of Dawn came upon them. The army on the south bank lost 80% of their combat power from that attack. The First Army – or what was left of it – was located in the western district. Only 30 000 men and women were left, including those working to produce new vehicles and equipment. They collected all weapons that they found, whether they belonged to the enemy or were left behind by their own dead. Everyone who was able to hold a weapon was handed one.

There were no such things as civilians in Kaliningrad.

**Northern Front**

"Finally, we're here…" muttered Lucas to himself, looking out of the firing port of the IFV. A feeling of intensity rose from the pit of his stomach, and he was unsure whether to see it as a good or bad feeling. He was excited to be at the front, where the fighting was going their way. They could see the Shirma River from the top of Hill 333, he had heard, but he was not going there.

From the firing port he could not see much. He observed as the world went past him at high speed. Red shells impacted the ground and shook the earth as if there were an earthquake. "Hang on tight!" shouted the driver, speeding up. Lucas lost his footing for a moment, and was supported quickly by his comrades.

"Thank you," he said, taking a seat for his own safety.

The IFV came to a stop just inside the city. The men had to get out to provide overwatch for it. "Go, go, go!" shouted Lucas as the driver opened the door. The section of men rushed out onto the asphalt, crouch-walking towards the wall of the building under heavy artillery fire. It was then that Lucas finally saw it. It was unlike anything he had seen. Even the previous cities that they had taken were nowhere near this badly damaged.

Bodies of both COG men and Reds, and even civilians were strewn all over the place. Dismembered limbs littered the roads and blackened fields. The stench of burning and rotting flesh permeated the air. Even the helmet filters on his men were unable to hold back the absolutely unbearable stench.

One man ripped off his helmet and vomited into a pool of blood underneath a dead Red.

"Jesus Christ," one of the men in his section said. "Did you have to do that on someone's body?" It was a question that required no answer. Whoever saw this and did not feel like vomiting or in the least disgusted could not be considered a decent human being. Lucas saw writing on the wall.

In large letters with jagged lines, on the concrete, the words read "WELCOME TO HELL". Very encouraging. Lucas shook his head. He remembered that they had been deployed to the western district. "All right, men. Let's move. Our orders are to take the hotel. It's two klicks north. Follow the vehicle. Dickson, lead the way!"

He followed after the IFV, a rather annoying cacophony of noises filling the background. Intense exchanges of gunfire could be heard even from where he stood, indicating just how close they were to the fighting. The thundering of artillery batteries in the distance was awe-inspiring. Never before had they heard such a mix of sounds warning of impending violence.

A spray of blood went through the air, painting Lucas' suit a dark crimson. A soldier's head hat been shot clean off his shoulders. "Shit, sniper!" he exclaimed upon hearing the gunshot crack overhead. "Where is he?"

"Too far away! He was dead long before we heard the shot," said one of his men. "Find cover!" They immediately dashed to the side of the IFV as it turned left, its turret pointing in the direction of incoming tracer rounds and squeezing off a few bursts of 25mm chaingun fire.

"Agghh!" a scream came from behind him. The last man had fallen, and was grabbing his lower leg. "I'm hit! I'm hit!!"

"Pick him up!" ordered Lucas, following the IFV closely. The last one behind turned around and grabbed the man by his field pack, dragging him and his entire weight across the road.

"Nngh!"

Lucas turned his head back to look, still following the IFV as he went. That man had taken a shot to the neck. His Lancer clattered to the ground, and he fell as well. With both hands he held onto his neck while wriggling and flailing about. Puffs of dust and dirt rose from the ground. Tracer rounds marked their direction, until they hit the two men. Blood went spurting into the air as they were granted death. He looked away – those men were dead.

"Don't slow down! Keep up! We have enemy machineguns and snipers trained on us!" He followed the IFV closely, hoping that no shells would find their way into the vehicle. "Come on! Move, men! Move!"

The IFV turned right, and they let it pass, taking cover behind its rear. "Weapons, left and right! Shoot at anything Red! If it screams in some Northern language, shoot it again!" They followed behind the vehicle as it covered their movement. This was the only way through the combat zone – if one antitank rocket were to destroy the IFV, they would all go along with it. This way, at least, there was a better chance at survival.

An explosion went off overhead, and it pushed the men to the ground.

"Yeaagh!" screamed one of them, a large piece of shrapnel pierced right through his upper chest. He fell backwards, bleeding onto the road, as another shell slammed into the side of the high-rise apartment to their left and rained bricks that surely killed the poor sod.

"Airburst shells! The enemy is using airburst shells!" an NCO shouted over the communications channel. "Get out of the open! Find some cover!" Good advice, but they were in a hurry.

"Just keep moving, men! Don't stop for anything!" The IFV sped up, and so did they. It turned left again, pointing its turret to its front. From their left, machineguns spat bullets to their right. They had reached the front line. The IFV turned right onto the road, shooting in the direction of incoming fire. Lucas looked at his squad, and immediately pointed his finger at three men. "You three, take left and get inside that restaurant. Clear it out and flank the hotel. Our objective is a hundred metres down the road." He looked at the remaining two. "You two, follow me. Follow closely!"

He tapped his magazine and revved the chainsaw bayonet once. He loved the sound it made. It made him feel absolutely confident even in the event that he ran out of ammunition. "Dickson, let's move it!"

The three-man squad broke off to the left, under covering fire. Lucas approached the hole in the wall on the right-side building. He ran forward to the wall in front, taking cover behind it. He leaned slightly to observe the enemy. He could see the hotel from here. Its walls were marked with trails of bullet holes, and the grand stone steps leading up to its door were covered in rubble and fallen parts of the roof covering the front entrance.

"The two of you, advance to the low wall in front on my command and stay there," he instructed. The two nodded, lining up against the wall. An artillery round pounded the building like a hammer smashing in a nail. Lucas closed his eyes on instinct. He threw his issued helmet away; it stifled him and he couldn't breathe under such circumstances. He leaned out with his Lancer, pulling the trigger and keeping the weapon close to maintain a steady aim. "Now! Go!"

The two men tucked their heads low, hands on their helmets as they crossed the road to the low, broken wall. "Control, we need an artillery fire mission on the grounds to the south of the hotel!"

"Negative; we cannot comply with that request. Command wants that hotel intact. Two gunships in the vicinity are being deployed."

"Fine," he said, shaking his head. "Cover me!" He dashed out as well, the two men popping up over the wall and firing in short bursts. Lucas dove forward like a professional thrashball player, hitting the wet, muddy ground. He got up, ignoring the dark brown filth sticking to his chest plate. He and his men moved from wall to wall, obstacle to obstacle as they went, covering each other from enemy fire with their own. "Fire your weapon if you want to live! This war isn't going to fight itself!" He dropped into a shell crater, landing in the mud.

And landing on the body of a dead Red. "Shit," he said to himself, scrambling away from the body. A grenade lay on the ground, and he recognised it as the high-explosive fragmentation grenade. He quickly grabbed it, staying low as he primed it and swung it over the side of the crater. "Frag out!" He withdrew his arm quickly, narrowly avoiding a spray of bullets.

"Sergeant, we are taking heavy fire!" reported the two men in front, both behind walls. It was evident that this was what remained of a building. Next to nothing.

"Give it a minute; our choppers are coming. Dickson, provide some support!" The IFV rolled forward down the road, spewing round after round at the enemy positions in the hotel. "They're holed up in there! We've got them pinned! Let's keep going!"

The beating rotors of two King Raven II gunships could be faintly heard over the deafening explosions and gunfire. They opened fire with their Gatling guns and rockets, tearing to shreds the Reds who were desperately defending their positions. Taking advantage of the confusion, they charged across to another wall, firing on the hotel as they went. Lucas had not felt so breathless in his entire life, not even when the crazy sergeants chased his platoon around the standard obstacle course. Training was training. War was a completely different affair.

"Forward, comrades! Forward!" A commissar shouted. "Kill the fascist pigs!" He aimed the snub pistol he was waving in Lucas' direction. "Die, you dogs! Die!"

"For the Motherland!!" shouted one soldier, fixing his bayonet on his rifle. "Urraaaaaah!" He shouted. Midway through the shout, his compatriots joined him, shouting and leaping over sandbags with their weapons and pointy bayonets aimed forward. Machineguns fired upon them as they went over the walls and sandbags, some dying before they managed to climb over.

How could these men be so fanatical and stupid? Why could they not see that the war was a lost cause? Why were they giving their lives for people that would otherwise have them killed? It made no sense. Lucas tried to purge these thoughts from his head as he advanced with his men across the field. They were almost at the hotel!

"Fire! Fire!" ordered the commissar, slapping a soldier on his head and pointing in the direction of the restaurant. The soldier nodded, taking in a deep breath before he pulled the trigger. Bullets rushed out of the large-calibre machinegun's barrel at a high rate of fire, shattering windows, tearing up tables and ripping men into ugly little shreds.

"Bastards," Lucas muttered, taking aim. He pulled the trigger once. The commissar fell wide-eyed to the ground, his windpipe splattered against the steps of the hotel. His tensed body went limp later, finally out of breath. Lucas considered it doing the Soviets a favour. He had heard much about the fat, well-fed political commissars that seemed to have access to all the rations that the Reds at the front lines needed.

"This is Golf Leader, RTB," reported the pilot of the helicopter, pulling up and away from the battle. Lucas acknowledged that his support was gone with a nod to himself. They probably had to return to base for fuel or ammunition. He laid down suppressing fire for his men.

"Move! Move!" he shouted, as a smoke trail formed above him. An explosion went off to his left, and he turned to see his squad's vehicle blown to pieces. "Shit!" He fired upon the soldier on the balcony on top, and he plunged five storeys, dead before he hit the ground.

"They're retreating! They're retreating! Attack!" yelled a COG officer, lobbing a grenade into the now open hotel entrance. The resulting explosion left an ugly black mark on the floor, and generated a large cloud of smoke. This was the cover they needed.

The COG men charged into the hotel lobby under heavy fire, seeking cover immediately behind anything they could find. "Keep up the fire! We're doing good!"

Lucas looked around for his men outside, staying low and keeping an eye out for stray enemies. "Fire team, report." He waited a few moments, looking to the left and right for them. "Fire team, report!"

"They're all dead, Sarge," reported one of them.

"Corporal! Are you okay? What's your status?" Lucas asked excitedly.

"They're all dead, they're all dead…" was all he would say.

"Damn it. Come with me, men. We're going to confirm their status." Lucas ducked low and ran across the open streets to the restaurant, keeping his weapon pointed down the road to cover his men as they crossed over. "Move in. Keep an eye out for enemies."

The two soldiers hurried into the restaurant, weapons ready to fire at any moment. They kicked down the door, and it readily flew off its hinges. "Anyone got a light?"

The second man whipped out a torchlight, turning it on and sweeping the area with it. Bodies lay everywhere, some groaning and some truly dead. Lucas shot one man before he could raise his pistol. He noticed that the Reds were not wearing any protective suits or armour, only coats and what seemed to be warm clothing. Were they insane? To ignore personal safety in combat… unthinkable!

A large fire – a burning pile of wood – lit the room sufficiently. "Are those our boys?" asked Lucas, taking the torchlight from his subordinate with his left hand and looking around the area. He held his Lancer in his right hand, just to be safe. He had to make sure that the dead would stay dead.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is!" one of the men shouted excitedly. The duo ran over to the middle of the restaurant. The light from the flames reflected off the man's chest plate, and what was left of him. Both legs had been shot off, judging by the way the skin had split. Some of it still hung over his bleeding stubs, with white bone protruding from them.

"Ahhh… Agghh…" he could hear the man say. Lucas did not want to look, but he eventually found himself turning toward the source of the groaning. "They're all dead… They're all dead, they're all dead!"

"It's okay, Elrond. We'll get you home, okay? We'll get you home to Nina, all right? Remember your little girl Nina? And your wife Beatrice?" The other two were doing their best to comfort the man, and to ascertain whether he was still conscious of what was happening around him. "Hey, come here, help me move him."

The combined weight of the man's equipment, armour and his body made it a difficult task to lift him alone. "One, two, three!"

Lucas could hear nothing. His blurred vision showed only his world turning topsy-turvy. He felt himself hit something hard and gritted his teeth in response, accidentally biting on the tip of his tongue. He groaned, his body slumping forward after his legs landed on the floor.

It took him several long moments, looking up and down, left and right. He felt dizzy and breathless, and he certainly had a massive headache. His ears rang still, and he felt himself staggering as he walked forward, into the cloud of dust and smoke. He coughed; the irritants were not friendly to his lungs at all.

He waved his hand left and right, trying to sweep and fan the smoke away, but to no avail. He regained his hearing moments later, but still his ears rang. Whatever happened, it had happened with such great force that it flung him to the other end of the restaurant and caused temporary deafness. Not that it would make much difference. Given enough time in war, he would be deaf anyway.

He finally regained his senses completely. He looked around, and all he could see was blood and guts. The two men who had moved the body were in multiple pieces. Parts of their suit were melted, pierced with shrapnel, or completely torn off. The communist bastards had booby-trapped the body with a grenade or a mine.

Lucas, amidst the incessant noise and chaos of war, hid his blackened, sweaty face in his dirty, black gloves. When he came to Kaliningrad, there were 10 men in his section, including himself. Barely half an hour in, nine of them were dead. Secretly, he wished that he had died in place of each of them. But no, Sergeant Lucas Mancini was still alive.

And in Kaliningrad, all men were better off dead.

**Heroes' Hotel**

The hotel in the western district of Kaliningrad was so named in honour of legendary war heroes such as Marcus Fenix, who was once invited years before the conflict began to attend its opening ceremony. Despite his insistence on not being made out to be some kind of hero figure, a statue with his likeness had been sculpted out of fine marble and placed in the lobby to welcome one and all to it. Its name was not changed even after the coup. The Heroes' Hotel would take on another meaning now.

"Comrades, the enemy is at our doorstep," the commissar said, almost hissing. He and his men were holed up in a ballroom. The tables and chairs were overturned to provide some cover. "This is our last stand. We will not surrender under any circumstances." He loaded the Lancer rifle he had procured, and manually chambered the first round. He had only one magazine left for it. "The blood of champions flows in our veins. No man or monster that has come this far north has ever seen victory. Even the Locust, the vile beasts that we, mankind, defeated, were no match for General Winter and the Soviet people."

A sergeant smiled as he listened to the propaganda speech, adjusting his telogreika. It was half a size too small, but it would make no difference in a while. They would all be dead soon.

"Comrades. This is the end of the line. We have nowhere else to go," the commissar continued. He wanted to raise the spirits of his men for the coming fight. "We will fight back the fascist invaders. No matter how long, or how hard, we will fight them back to where they came from." He looked at his men. There were young and there were old. Some of them were young women, in fact – probably not even a full eighteen years old. "If we die today, it has been an honour serving with you."

"Urrah!" They cheered. For once, they had a commissar who was sincere and not just doing his political duties.

Two grenades flew through the open doorway to the ballroom. "Here they come! Fire in bursts!" The commissar, standing up straight, put bursts of three through the door. The grenades detonated, puncturing many table with shrapnel. "Do not let up! Shoot your weapons!" He reached into his coat and pulled out his grenade. He primed it, and with a mighty swing, threw it across the ballroom and into the wall on the other side.

It exploded, shredding one COG soldier to bits. "Yeah!" one of the men praised him, pouring bullets into the men coming through the doorway.

The sergeant grabbed his light machinegun, and lay prone on the carpeted marble floor. He pointed it at the men attempting to flank them and fired. Parts of the tables and chairs snapped off as bullets cut through them.

"Run, you cowards! Run for your pathetic little lives!" shouted the commissar. The building shook as artillery rained upon Soviet positions outside. Dust fell from the ceiling, and a fluorescent light shook loose of it, dangling dangerously from a cable. "Keep up the fire, comrades! We're doing good!" Bullet casings flew about as they pummelled the COG troops with unceasing gunfire. The rifle clicked. The commissar threw it aside and pulled out his pistol, still standing up and bravely firing in defiance of the enemy advance. "Grenades! Throw your grenades!"

"Last one!" announced a young girl, hurling the grenade over the overturned table from her prone position. It went off, shattering the leg of a COG soldier and giving him the headache of a lifetime. His comrades grabbed him and dragged him out under cover fire. The COG forces left the room, closing the door behind them.

"That's it, kids! Run! Run home to your mothers!"

And then the building shook again, this time much more violently. Another artillery shell. More dust fell from the ceiling, and the dangling light fell to the floor with a great clatter. The lights went out, and all was dark in the room. Men started screaming and shouting in panic, unable to see anything. "Quiet, you idiots!" They could not see outside of the room either – the entire building had lost power. "Anyone have a torchlight? What's going on?"

"Nothing. No light, Comrade Commissar."

"Nothing here either, Comrade."

"Shit. What's going on here?" The commissar struggled to see in this darkness. He heard – and he felt – heavy footfalls. Each one sounded more and more like thunder. The ground vibrated beneath them as what sounded like heavy machinery came close. "Who goes there?" demanded the commissar.

There was no answer, only more footfalls. "Stop, or we fire! Identify yourself!" The footfalls came closer and closer. The vibrations were stronger and stronger with each step. Whatever it was, it was big and definitely was not friendly. "It's getting close! Fire! Fire!"

The Reds fired their weapons. They saw something, reflecting the light from their muzzle flashes. Without need for instruction, they directed their fire at it. The sound of metal hitting metal was repeated over and over again. Tracer sounds seemed to just bounce of whatever it was that was there. Men shouted as they fired, some hoping to scare if off like they had the COG troops, with overwhelming firepower. The commissar joined in with his pistol, reloading and firing over and over again. Half a minute later, clicks sounded in the room. Everyone was out of ammunition. They froze, rooted to the ground and not knowing what to anticipate. Was it dead? Was it gone?

Out of the darkness spoke a voice. It was deep, loud and powerful, almost like a machine.

"You are the enemy of the People. I have come to destroy you."

The lights turned back on just in time for the commissar to see a massive hammer coming down upon him.

*

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**Author's note:**

I hope you liked this chapter!

Credit goes to Obsidian Fourteen for the final scene and the idea associated with it! :D


	10. UUURRAAAAAAHH!

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 09**

The fighting had only begun. Lucas watched as COG troops pulled bodies down from the beds of trucks. There was a parking lot full of them, bodies that had been cleared from the trenches in the outskirts of the city. A COG HQ had been set up at Gumrak Airbase, south of Kaliningrad and miles from the fighting.

Rows of bodies, some of them missing lower halves or decapitated with their tags still hung on what remained of their necks, were lined up by the side of the runway on the field. The first snow had begun to fall, collecting on top of the bodies since the early morning.

He could not bear to look. Many of these men had family, friends and loved ones. His mind drifted as he stared at the bodies from his seat on the wooden bench in front of a hangar. His thoughts were unorganised and wild, like the raging current of the Shirma River.

The bodies were loaded into man-sized boxes, arranged on trolleys, and loaded into the cargo holds of waiting transport aircraft. He did not want to count the bodies. There were too many. In just days of fighting, already there were thousands of dead and wounded men and women being transported home on aircraft.

The casualties who got away were the lucky ones. Day by day, those who stayed and carried on fighting died a little more on the inside. Death and destruction was starting to become a routine. Raping and pillaging was commonplace. Where surrounded COG troops could not find a means of sexual release, they did it with anyone – any THING. Where they could not find food, they ate animals, even the filthy, disgusting rats that crawled out through holes in the walls and sewage pipes.

A gloved hand came upon the shoulder joint of his suit, patting it twice. Lucas looked up, his mud-caked, dirty face squaring off with the reddish, warm cheeks of an officer. He held a bottle in his left gloved hand, and in it was clear liquid. The label was brown and faded. The bottle was thrust into his chest, and he grabbed it with his hands. The liquid sloshed around inside.

"Soviet vodka," the officer said, smiling as he took his right hand away from Lucas. "Take it. I heard about what happened to you. The nine men…"

Lucas looked at the bottle, and then at the officer. He hurriedly unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips, raising it above his head. He gulped once, and almost dropped the bottle, spitting out the rest of the vodka in his mouth and hacking for his life.

The officer laughed. "Young man, there is more than enough of that to go around! We are in the 'Soviet Union', famous for its vodka and beautiful women!" Lucas felt the sting of the vodka from his throat to his insides, and felt warm all around. "Have you eaten?"

Lucas shook his head, clearing his throat from the bottom up and spitting out phlegm. He had not had any food, drink or sleep the entire night. He had spent the whole time getting back to headquarters. Why, he did not know, but he found himself here. The leather glove slid into his coat and out again, retrieving an aluminium foil package. "Here, take this too." The officer put it on the bench. "Vulcanian chocolate. I will arrange a new posting for you." He turned on his heels, and paced away from the hangar.

Lucas put down the bottle, and took the package in his hand. On it, in black marker ink, was written 'ROMMEL'. The highest-ranking officer on the Northern Front had shared his breakfast with a common soldier.

Thoughts of the dead soldiers came to mind as more logistics staff, shaking their heads, packed dismembered limbs into boxes to be sent home. "Why the hell are we fighting here? So many of our guys are dead…"

"Shut up! You want them to hear you?" hissed a company quartermaster. "Get that loaded into the plane. Hurry up!" That man reminded Lucas of himself, so full of purpose and energy. He believed so much in victory, and believed entirely in the COG's purpose of war. They were here to free the people of the Soviet Union from the propaganda of their leaders. They were here, as liberators and saviours. They were here to win. For victory. All the way from the mountain range to this place, there had been only victory for the COG.

He pulled from his pouch strapped to his utility belt a notebook. He had lost his pen, and had picked up a pencil with colourful flowers printed all over its wooden surface. The end was blunt, but usable. The notebook, he had picked up out of curiosity, and decided to keep until he could find this man's family or his body. He had his own notebook, but had not yet filled it up. He opened it up and read the first page of the notebook, belonging to a Corporal Samuel G. Wallace.

_I am the only one left of my platoon. How nice. And now… The snow falls again. What is wrong with this weather? Winter is starting so much earlier than we are used to further south. Last month when the invasion started we already saw snow. Then the rain came and turned everything into mud. And then the snow again. It is cold now; my suit is out of power. The snowfall comes so early here. The Soviet Union is a strange place. Here, so far away from home, all I can think of is Mother's warm and smooth cheesecake. _

A commotion to his left interrupted his reading. He was done with that day's entry anyway, and so he put it back into his pocket. Quickly, he got to his feet, vodka and chocolate in his hands, and walked towards one of the buildings in Gumrak.

"Sit down, you idiots! The food is almost ready!" screamed the NCO in charge of the mess. Impatient young men drummed on the table with their spoons, their empty mess tins waiting to be filled. "Oh, God, why do I always get assigned when the stupid ones come in?"

Lucas entered the mess hall. Gears sat at their tables in their suits, lined up on the long benches, chatting and complaining. It resembled a marketplace more than it did a mess hall. "Sergeant, how nice of you to join us! Come, come," beckoned an officer, waving him over. "Breakfast is about to be served."

Lucas walked over to the officers' table, taking a seat and putting the vodka on the table. He quickly stuffed the chocolate into his pocket. "Vodka, at this hour of the day?" Lucas shrugged. He was exhausted, and had no energy with which to come up with some excuse or reason for what he was doing. The officer laughed, and asked if they might share some. Lucas unscrewed the cap and handed it to him.

"Thank you," he said as he took hold of the bottle with a wide smile. He took a mouthful and swallowed, breathing in deep to make the sting last longer at the back of his throat. He let out a fading sigh after he swallowed, handing the bottle to the next man down the line.

He looked at them, sharing the drink without a care in the world. How he envied these men, who could still laugh and poke fun at each other. After what he had seen, he wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and hope it all went away. Yet at the same time, he knew it would not just fade away.

**Univermag**

12th Guards Regiment. If that's what they called it, these people were certainly crazy. They were short on food, clean water and ammunition. They were cut off from the rest of Kaliningrad – the COG had punched a hole in their lines and reached within 500 metres of the Shirma River. Their machineguns were within range of the ferry landing, and so were their mortar crews.

"I am now giving you new orders, Captain. Lead your men forward! Capture the Technical Institute of Kaliningrad – it is vital that you retake the position and link up with the rest of the forces along the Shirma. Capture the positions and secure the institute – the water sports facility and sports field are important landing areas! There is no better way than this to support you."

"My men? Forward? We are almost dead of hunger and thirst, yet you want us to go forward? We are barely hanging on!" retorted Captain Andrei Sokolov.

"You can die trying to link up and last longer, or you can just die like dogs holding onto the scraps of land in the eastern district. Your choice." The line went dead, and Sokolov angrily put down the receiver. Just what the hell was that man thinking? He was right, though. If he pulled out a few platoons they might be able to take the place and hold the position… At least for a while. Reinforcements had been promised and were due to arrive within two or three days. He hoped that they would all last that long.

"Comrade Sokolov, if you read, please copy."

"This is Sokolov. Copy," he said. The voice was female, and he immediately assumed it was some annoying general's staff calling him to relay a message.

"This is Kapitan Isidora Petrova of the 27th Mechanised Infantry. I overheard over the radio frequencies. My men and I will support you in the capture of the T.I.K. When will you be making your move?"

Sokolov was surprised. The woman spoke quite resolutely, and was very confident in her men, evidently. Her voice gave off waves of power. "In the evening. They must not have had much time to reinforce the position and to bring in more troops. We cannot give them rest. Come nightfall, we strike. I will send a battalion of the Twelfth Guards from the east."

"A platoon of the 27th will help you – and I will personally lead them. That is about all I can spare." Isidora sighed mentally. She knew the capabilities of her troops. The three platoons of the original Torchbearers, she knew would do the job well. The rest, in their own right, were good too. Many of them were country farmers and hunters – some were even career soldiers like her who more than welcomed the Soviet system and the northern traditions they were reviving. Most of them were skilled in the use of rifles. Teaching them to work as a team in combat had taken some time, but they were quick to learn.

"Your help is appreciated, Comrade Petrova."

"Isidora will do," she said with a little smile to herself. Sokolov chuckled.

"All right, then. Thank you Isidora – you may call me Andrei."

"Mmm. My men will move into position after nightfall. Lieutenant Vladimir Antonov will lead the attack from the west. The signal is…"

"A whistle. No need for flares – the city burns bright enough to read the political newspapers from the opposite side of the Shirma," joked Sokolov. But the reason it was so funny was because it was true. Hot ash fell from the black sky like snow. In addition to the Hammer of Dawn attack, the COG air fleet had also rained bombs on the city for days on end with great intensity. A firestorm was generated, and it consumed all in its path. It had turned the sky a magnificent reddish-orange over Kaliningrad, lighting it up even in the dark night, before it faded.

Now the sky was black. It was black with soot, dust and smoke, and was even thicker than fog. It was practically impossible to see much further than a few hundred metres in a straight line even if unobstructed. Many of the buildings had been gutted by fires and bombed until nothing was left of them but the lower ends of their walls and in some cases one or two metres of the reinforced concrete walls adjacent to a pillar still stood defiantly, while the rest of the building was in shambles and lay in a heap of bricks and twisted steel.

"A whistle... It will not be loud enough. And it will not be fearsome enough."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"You will know the signal when you hear it. Just get your men into position."

There was silence for a few moments, and Sokolov knew that she had no more to say. He needed time to pick out the ones he wanted on this mission, and to assign them ammunition and what supplies they could spare. Being a soldier was no joke and no easy feat. Being an officer at the same time was worse! On top of that now he had to guess as to what her signal was… Was it a flare? Or a mortar barrage? Just what was it?

Quickly, he put away the receiver and went to choose his men. He assembled them as they had lunch – if a few pots of stew shared between 5000 troops could be called lunch. The constant clanging of spoons against tin cans scooping up every drop of the stew resounded throughout the room. "I will choose the leaders for tonight's mission. Move in under cover of darkness. I will send one battalion of men."

"One battalion? That's 300 men!" exclaimed one of the NCOs. "How are we going to hold the river until reinforcements arrive if our men are taken away for the mission? For all you know they might choose to attack at exactly this time."

"We will hold out, Comrades. We will!" Sokolov would not stand for discouragement. They had orders, and they were going to fulfil what the higher-ups required of them. "The Univermag overlooks Red Square. We hold a good position and the building is well-constructed. Look around you in the town. What does the enemy have? Nothing! They have destroyed so much of the city! Our beautiful city! Look at this place!" He pointed out of the fifth-storey window, to Red Square. The soldiers in the room looked outside, following his hand as it pointed into the floating clouds of ashes and soot.

"Look what the fascists have done to our Motherland! Civilians! Men, women and children! DOGS! They kill our DOGS just because our dogs are Soviet! Where is their humanity? They are monsters! Not worthy of being called 'men'! What man uses the Hammer of Dawn and burns children to death in a school?! What man uses his weapons to destroy a people's pride and joy? Look, comrades, look!" Sokolov was enraged at the mention of children burning to death in a school. His six-year-old daughter had been among them. "They torch our city to the ground! The fascists destroy everything in sight and think it will destroy our morale along with it! But no, Comrades, I say to you – we are descendants of an ancient people called the Russians. We bear their names and we speak their language. Our ancestors fought for their freedom, and brought the fight right to the enemy's gates! We shall do the same! WE SHALL DO THE SAME!" By the last sentence, he was yelling out each word, articulating it loudly and perfectly.

"Urrah! Urrah!" chanted one of the men present. Tin cans in their left hands, spoons in their right, they joined in, chanting, "Urrah! Urrah! Urrah!". Their voices stretched across Red Square, the wind from the Shirma carrying it as if to caress and tease the fascists just a few hundred metres down the road.

"My soldiers! We are Russian by blood, Russian by birth! I know that many of us are not purebred Russians, but Russian or not, we are all Soviets! We are brothers and sisters who believe in our freedom! We are the descendants of victorious champions! They have made it a point to exterminate us – we will not submit! UUURRAH!" The men joined him in the last cry, and it drowned out everything else – the artillery shells, the bombs, the gunfire, the radios at work. Everything. Together they shouted at the tops of their lungs, 5000 voices united.

Their voices rose and echoed throughout the skeleton of a city. Their cry bounced off walls of each and every building, spreading throughout the city. Their voices could be heard even miles away, without the aid of microphones or loudhailers.

Soldiers tingled. Soviets tingled with excitement, morale skyrocketing from their comrades' voices. They looked up and around, and at each other with wide smiles. COG men tingled with fear throughout their bodies when the battle cry came across the square to their positions.

"UUURRRAAAAAAHH!!" They heard the united voices shout. In their holes, in the ruins, in their shooting cells and in the slit trenches, they heard the voices. Strange farting sounds came from the slit trenches when the first shout came, and men hurriedly got out, each laughing and joking about the way the other finished his business when the cries of 5000 enraged men and women reached their ears and dug right into their hearts.

It was a shout that represented the rage of the Soviet people in the face of COG fascism and the atrocities that they committed.

It was a shout the COG would never forget.

**Technical Institute of Kaliningrad**

Mikhail crawled across the blackened, loose soil. Constant artillery bombardment had churned the soil over and over, preventing snow from building up. He breathed out, keeping one hand on his hat as he landed in a shell crater. He put down his rifle for a moment, tying the chin straps below his chin to keep the earflaps in place and the hat on his head. He continued creeping across in the darkness, taking care not to raise his head too high. He would be seen by the COG, lit up by the fires burning in the city.

To his left, south of the Shirma River on his right, the entire city of Kaliningrad burned. Clouds of smoke hung over the city. Everywhere he went he smelled the same things – death, smoke and gunpowder. Decomposed, rotting, cut up bodies were everywhere. A man's naked body, certain parts removed, hung from an electrical post by the ankle, swinging slightly to the left and right like a pendulum.

"Bastards," he cursed under his breath, crawling across on his belly.

"Mikhail, hurry," beckoned the lieutenant. Mikhail grunted in acknowledgement, sliding across the ground with his rifle in his arms. They were now in enemy-held territory. In their advance across to the TIK, they had stabbed and killed many men silently with their knives and bayonets.

This was an advantage they had that the chainsaw-dependent COG did not. Artillery shells went off in the distance, to their left, and huge splashes of water indicated that the enemy was shelling the river again. The bastards were trying to kill their men before they could cross the river!

But there was nothing he could do for his brothers in arms. He continued crawling, until the lieutenant hissed. "Contact," he whispered. "In front. About 30 metres. Pass the word. When we get the signal from the 27th, on my mark, everyone in the first platoon throws a grenade at the enemy positions. Focus on the machinegun positions."

"But we only have one grenade each," whispered another man in the darkness.

"That's the whole point, you idiot," the lieutenant hissed again. "Do it." From one man, to two, and then the entire company, the message was handed down in hushed voices from mouth to ear.

Tense moments passed. Vladimir looked into the sky, straining to see the moon through the clouds of smoke. The first snow had begun to fall recently, but it was light and insignificant. It was a good sign to them, however.

They waited, fidgeting in their holes and craters. Despite the smoke and dust, they did not cough or twitch. One false move would give away their positions and ruin the plan.

From here, he could hear the enemy conversing. They seemed to speak a multitude of languages and dialects. The COG was made up of many nations. They had numerical and technological superiority in many ways, but… The fundamental problem lay in communicating across the board efficiently. He mused to himself, waiting for the signal from the opposite side.

And then it came.

A loud cry, from west. And then more voices joined in.

"URRAAAAAAAHHH!!"

It echoed throughout all of Kaliningrad. Vladimir tingled with excitement, the adrenaline drawn out by his comrades. Voices screaming in unison to signal a Soviet charge – a tradition that had been established in their culture since ancient times.

"Now!" he whispered, lobbing a grenade over the side of the shell crater. The whooshing of a fragmentation grenade through the air was masked by the gunfire coming from the other end of the TIK. Others followed, flinging their grenades at the confused enemy, who were looking around and asking their superiors for orders. "Die, fascists!"

"_In Deckung_! _Feindliche Granate_!" A man screamed, grabbing the grenade on the ground to hurl back at the attackers. He had no idea where they were, but he had a rough idea from where the grenade landed. His platoon members scattered as he flung it back where it came from, and he suddenly realised why. Dozens grenades had landed on the ground around him. He jumped for cover, but was caught mid-air in the explosions.

"Uuurrah! Uuurrah! Uuurrah! Uuurrah!" they chanted, letting the grenades go off. Their voices became louder and louder. The grenades stopped, and the thick smoke and dust hung in the air.

Vladimir stood to his feet, pulling his rifle stock to his shoulder. "UUURRAAAH!"

His men followed him, leaping to their feet and charging forward through the smoke, yelling at the enemy positions.

"Retreat! It's hopeless! It's a massive charge!" shouted one COG soldier as he ran, before he was gunned down from behind. He fell to the floor with a grunt, skidding forward for a foot and heels swinging into the air before landing on the ground. They trampled over his body as they attacked with ferocity that they had never seen in themselves before.

"For the Motherland! Attack!!" screamed Vladimir, bayoneting one man in the groin. He kicked his victim away, bringing the stock to his shoulder and putting two bullets into his chest.

It did not take long. There was nearly no resistance. The COG troops picked up and fled their positions so quickly that they had left many of their weapons and supplies in the technical institute.

By the end of the hour, the Reds were gathered in the block facing the main road and the rest of the buildings, shouting insults at the enemy as they retreated. Many of these men and women were killed using their own machineguns and grenades. Poetic, to say the least.

They could laugh for now. Things would change soon enough.

**COG Frontline Positions**

"You fools! You vacated the TIK without orders!" screamed an angry officer at his men. "You lost an entire company in the retreat, left supplies, weapons and ammunition for the enemy and you even marked the way to our positions with bodies!" He was right. They had retreated without orders, out of fear of the enemy.

"Do you even know how many came? You had more men than they had, and you had better weapons! Our snipers report only a few hundred men and women. You – all of you together numbered one thousand! Enough – go now, and retake that TIK!"

They had barely been here for two hours, and now they had to go back into the fighting. This was madness! But this was the Soviet Union. It ran on madness, and a war economy.

"Attack! For the Fatherland!" an officer shouted, raising his Lancer in the air and leading the way.

Again and again they attacked, pummelling the Red positions with bullets, artillery and grenades. Each time they were repelled with the weapons that they had set up for defence. Each time they gained some footing on the building, the Reds repelled them, taking up new positions outside of the institute.

The fought into the wee hours of the morning, when armour pulled into the city to provide close support. The COG immediately had the advantage, with superior firepower on their side. They blasted and drilled holes into the TIK with chaingun and main tank gun rounds, and called in artillery fire missions – the bank of the Shirma was as far as they could fire with impunity. Any further in, and they risked counterbattery fire from the Soviet artillery crews.

By the afternoon, the hungry, tired Soviet troops were barely holding on, with a total of 60 men and women left. They regrouped in the front building, arming themselves with all manner of antitank weapons and other heavy weaponry.

They were determined to fight to the last man and the last bullet.

**Shirma River, North Bank**

The train stopped, and the door was unlocked. Commissars and NKVD personnel, armed with rifles and submachine guns, herded the dozens of men into lines that led to the boats, helicopters and IFVs, which were capable of travelling through water. The Soviets were using all available transport methods to bring in troops.

Helicopters and IFVs were needed in the fighting, however, so very few were used in transporting the men. Old-fashioned barges and boats were the transport of choice. The lucky ones got on the steamships. The unlucky ones had to paddle their way across in dinghies and wooden boats. Some even more unfortunate ones had to swim across the freezing cold waters of the Shirma River.

Sergei Medvedev felt and arm push him forward, and he followed. He did not want to die on this side, at the hands of some stupid young officer who thought the world of himself just because he was shooting 'traitors to the Motherland'. The big man moved forward, carrying nothing but his clothing. "Hurry up! Get on the boats!"

He looked across the Shirma, and the sight shook even him to his knees. He thought he had seen the worst in civil wars, but this… this was indescribable. Nothing remained of what he remembered about great Kaliningrad. A grand city, with many skyscrapers and luxurious apartment buildings. Pubs filled with beautiful women, and grand hotels in which to accompany them for the night. Streets lined with beautiful monuments, buildings and pavements. Red Square was no more. It was a mess of mud, dirt and rubble.

He was so awed that his jaw dropped, even as the commissars pushed him onto the boat. He dropped inside, sitting on the wet, cold floor and still observing Kaliningrad. Pillars, columns – no – walls of smoke rose from the ground up. Fires raged everywhere. Gunfire and artillery shells could be heard.

A great splash indicated the fall of an artillery shell in the river. Were they crossing through that? Sergei shook his head in disbelief. He had no idea that the situation had become like this. Where was the city that his forefathers had built? Nothing remained of it that could be recognised as Kaliningrad.

"Comrades! We are all gathered here today for a reason. We are here, as comrades in arms, to fight against the fascists! We will fight and drive them home! We will tear their hearts out and show them what kind of people they are! Their hearts are black – they have no mercy! They kill our people – old, young, men, women and children! They kill pregnant mothers and burn the foetuses so they do not have to fight the next generation! Comrades! Are you not enraged?!" A commissar screamed into his loudhailer over the din of battle. Screams went all around as an enemy fighter-bomber made an attack run, speeding past and putting holes in boats with its guns.

"Look, my brothers and sisters! They are cowards! They shoot and they run! They are no match for us." A tower of water rose next to the large boat, rocking it in the Shirma as it steamed across at full speed. An explosion went off to their left, indicating the deaths of many men in the river.

"If they bring men, we will kill them! If they bring planes, we will shoot them down! If they bring tanks, we will turn them into steel coffins! The fascists will not take another step! We will drown them in their own bloodlust! Comrades! Do not count days! Do not count miles! Count only the number of fascists you have killed! This is the prayer of your dead father. Your raped sister seeks this justice. This is the cry of the Motherland. Do not let up – kill!"

Men rushed out of the boat the moment it reached the landing – the water sports facility at the TIK. The entire building had been levelled, leaving only the walls, and the docks where the boats were put into the water for water sportsmen in better days.

"Line up!" ordered the commissar, raising his pistol. The men moved forward, ducking low to avoid machinegun fire coming their way from the buildings in front of the TIK. They lined up in front of supply trucks, on top of which men were giving out weapons and ammunition.

"The man with the rifle shoots!" exclaimed the commissar, angrily shouting into the loudhailer as if everyone had offended his mother. "The one without follows him! When the one with the rifle gets killed, the one without the rifle picks up and rifle AND SHOOTS!"

It sounded very familiar. Sergei had heard this line in an old war movie that was not very historically accurate, but was rather well-made in the sense that its characters were believable and it followed the actual battle quite well.

In fact, that scene in the movie was exactly like what had just happened – they had crossed the river, a commissar had screamed at them on the boat and another was screaming at them right now, pointing fingers and excitedly gesturing at the men.

And… he was given five bullets in a stripper clip. Typical. He could not believe how it so closely followed the movie. It was surreal. "Damn it, I need a rifle," he commented to himself, watching as the commissar pushed him away and forced him forward into the fighting without a weapon. He felt naked without one, thrown into the fighting without anything to defend himself with.

The man in front ran ahead with the rifle, following his comrades as they ducked low and charged across the open field, trying to take cover behind the helicopters delivering men and supplies as they went forward into the TIK.

Artillery shells fell all over the field, throwing up dirt and creating holes in the ground. Many machineguns raked the field with fire, unable to hit the actual landing area because the walls still stood. The blackened field was littered with the bodies of Soviet troops, holes punctured in their flesh and blood staining the place crimson.

Sergei followed, and sure enough, the man with the rifle fell, his head cleaved clean off his shoulders by a large-calibre bullet. He ducked low, rolling the body away and picking up the rifle. Now he saw the reason for the stripper clip with five rounds. It was an old hunting rifle, with a loading mechanism similar to the Longshot sniper rifle. Running forward, he pulled up the bolt and pulled it back, loading the rifle with five rounds. He pushed the bolt back in place, leaving the clip behind.

Sergei Medvedev had finally reached the frontlines.

With this hunting rifle, he was going to hunt down the enemy.

Every last one of them.

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Credit goes to the creators of Enemy At The Gates for that scene in the movie, from which I took the idea. :)


	11. Kalinin's Choir

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 10**

The flowing waters of the Shirma brushed past the city of Kaliningrad, an unstoppable force in action. Young couples, arm in arm, walked through the city in its winter glory. The Univermag stood ten storeys tall, the largest building dedicated to a department store in all of the Soviet Union. It was a symbol of economic power and growth, the only place in the world that could boast to have all the luxuries and necessities a person could ever need within its walls.

Before it was named Kaliningrad it had an insignificant name, but it was still a beautiful city along the Shirma River. A young man held his beloved wife in his arms in the middle of Red Square, seated on one of the benches built around the fountain. This was one of many places that couples frequented. The winter gave the sky and thus the city a whitish-blue hue, at certain hours of the day. Fascinated by the sight even after years of residence, couples regularly came out to see this wonderful city, coloured by nature.

High-rise buildings lined the streets. They were like walls of concrete, steel and glass rising high into the sky, as if to give nature as many middle fingers as they could.

Kaliningrad was beautiful beyond description. It was a humongous, grand city, with a population of over a million people. Parades of Red soldiers had marched through Kaliningrad on a regular basis, ever since the Communist Party came into existence, years before the coup.

The northern people were always united, regardless of ethnicity. There were the few who were disagreeable ruffians, but the large majority of their culture was the same. This bond was what held them together despite being under different governments.

When the Communist Party promised a revival of old ways, a bringing back of traditions, the people were more than happy to welcome it. Too long, they had had to suppress their appreciation of their own tradition for the COG-run puppet government. When the time came for the red flags to fly, people danced and screamed in the streets, celebrating their freedom from the totalitarian fascist government.

Workers happily went to work each day, to their offices and factory assembly lines. The constant clanging signalled the production of steel parts, used to mass-produce vehicles for the people.

These factories now produced tanks and weapons.

Schoolchildren would go to the mountain named Hill 333 on military maps, and they would camp out with their families. The less adventurous would make snowballs and play war. This was no longer a game. The blackened excuse for a mountain stood high and strong, its brown earth churned up by constant bombing and shelling.

Tank wreckages and the bodies of thousands littered the mountainsides. Tanks, advancing uphill, had been destroyed. Their charred hulls sat where they had been blown up, large holes burrowed into their thick armour. From these tanks too, rose towers of dark smoke. The wind blew ashes across the battlefield, a constant reminder of the place of destruction that they called Kaliningrad.

Few would believe it until they saw it. Kaliningrad as it was known, was no more. In its place lay a heap of rubble and ruins. Magnificent structures and works of art were obliterated. Red Square, once a cultural symbol, now took on a more literal meaning. It was red with the blood of Soviet men and women. Statues of war heroes, including Marcus Fenix in his youth, had been destroyed. The combined hammer, sickle and star, symbols of the common peasant, the worker, and the soldier, had also been destroyed.

What more did the fascists want from them? They had come and taken away everything that the people of Kaliningrad had ever known. Family – wives, husbands, parents and children were slaughtered like animals without mercy. Soviet prisoners of war were largely ignored, simply herded up into pens and camps fenced with barbed wire, watched over by a few armed guards. Civilians were not treated like civilians – they were either made into slaves to serve the COG, or killed, if they resisted.

Things meant to instil fear in the Soviet man only served to enrage him. The COG obviously thought that with their fancy weaponry and high-technology combined arms war doctrine, they could quickly and efficiently capture the city.

But they were wrong.

The greatest power the Soviets had on their side was emotion. They were inspired first, with love for their Motherland. This did not refer to the country they called Svoboda – and then later on, the USSR. It referred to the northern reaches of the continent as a whole, uniting all of them as one people.

And then, rage came out of each man and woman, in its own way. Many had lost family members in the fighting. In just a few weeks, millions were dead, victims of the COG attack. All possible resources were pulled. Any and all able-bodied men and women were to report for duty, given their service weapon, and sent into combat. All prisoners and slave camp labourers were to be given a chance at freedom, fighting for their own redemption. Those who were unfit for frontline duty were assigned to rear-echelon units, facilitating logistics and administration. Those more able were sent to work in factories, producing weapons.

This was the essence of the Soviet Union.

For years, Kalinin had planned the way the Soviet Union would be run. Everything was to be committed to war when it happened. Every city, every house, every man, woman and child who could contribute were to contribute. Anyone able to hold a rifle in his hands was to be sent into combat. Anyone capable of working in any way was put to use.

Those who formed resistance groups were glorified as heroes – the partisans – to be exploited for their propaganda value. The fact that the almighty COG forces were facing resistance from untrained civilians and hunters even in captured territory had great psychological effect on both sides. For the COG, it was a minus. Nobody knew who was a partisan and who was not, until he took a bullet to the brain. By then it would be too late. For the Reds, however, it was good to know that fellow Soviets were not taking the occupation lying down, and that everyone was doing their part to fight this war.

Kalinin's plan was brilliant, and stunned even his closest associates.

The USSR was to run on a war economy. War was, directly or indirectly, its only business and industry. War was its sole purpose for existence. Whether it was a war for freedom, liberty or other such ideals, it did not matter. As long as there was a war, and there were people fighting it, the Soviet Union would produce arms for them. So long as the fighting continued, the Soviet Union had everything to gain, and only lives to lose.

As a notorious dictator – a Georgia-born man who ruled Russia with an iron fist – once said, "The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of millions is a statistic." Life was cheap. People were expendable, for the 'greater good' and the communist cause. There was no other way by which this nation could possibly survive. War was at hand, and war was to be the fuel for the fires of the USSR.

It was an ingenious plan. Other nations that required surplus weapons for combat were now being supplied with the necessary equipment. Tiper, for example, had paid for many shipments of weapons and ammunition from the USSR, and was receiving constant supply in addition to its own output, until the battle of Kaliningrad.

Now, the theory of the war economy was to be tested. Would an entire nation built with the intention of war in all its components succeed? Or would the COG style of organisation prove to be the way to go? There was only one way to find out.

All eyes around the world were on Kaliningrad.

**Kaliningrad Front Command Centre**

"Sir!" shouted an officer. Yeremenko turned his head from the rectangular wooden table with paper maps all over it. Red lines marked different sectors on the map, with black lines denoting certain strongpoints and key areas, such as the TIK, the harbour, the factories and the eastern district that the 12th Guards were desperately holding onto, all of them involving the all-important ship and ferry landing points.

"What is it?" asked the general, turning his broad, slightly plump body to face the officer. His fat layers under his coat seemed to sway in slow-motion as he turned, a constant reminder that he desperately needed to get started on a training regimen.

"Reports from the frontlines! Twelfth Guards has managed a breakthrough to the east, to the Kaliningrad Infantry Specialists' School!"

"Good!" Yeremenko acknowledged with a smile. Finally there was some good news. The Infantry School had been overrun quickly, decimated by the Hammer of Dawn attack. The COG had then used the KISPECS – the abbreviation for the school's name – to launch attacks in their east flank, catching them unaware. Fortunately, the ruins of the city's buildings served as deathtraps and breakwaters, funnelling and channelling enemy infantry and armour into locations that they knew, and could hold them back from. "Give the order to reinforce the KISPECS. Send an armoured battalion of IFV with fresh troops as well."

"Yes, Sir!" The officer quickly went to relay the orders. Every second and minute was of great significance in this battle.

Yeremenko turned back to look at the maps with his fellow generals and superiors – Marshal Zhukov was in charge of the overall combat operations, including a secret plan that nobody but he knew of. Yeremenko had heard from his men and from officers in the outdoors mess area that there had been orders for large movements of manpower, ammunition, supplies and tanks away from the groups intended for the front lines. It made no sense thinning the ranks now, unless some plan was already in place and being set in motion.

It had been a full month since the fighting in Kaliningrad began. Two since the first air raids were conducted on the city itself. Winter had set in, picking up the pace with each moment. Time was beginning to wear everyone down. This was now a war of attrition – who would hold out the longest? Only General Snow could decide this fight now…

He had received many reports of conditions in the field. Poor sanitation, little rest from enemy attack and bombardment, letters to be sent home not being transported, no food and no ammunition were the most common. He understood these too well. He had been a child at the time of the Human-Locust war. Food was scarce. He was no stranger to suffering; he had suffered and fought his way up the ranks as a young man, finally earning a place in the officer corps in the COG. He knew their structure and the way they operated, but coming back to the north for so many years had not allowed him to be updated on the COG military doctrine. He knew nothing except for what he observed.

"Look at the way the COG attack. They constantly bomb us, knowing we have no air power against them, day or night. We are amassing the air forces as we speak but we need more time. Anyway, this is their general strategy – bombers, artillery, armour, then infantry. Then they move up the supplies." Lieutenant General Dima Chuikov, a bright commander and excellent soldier. Aleksei Korolov and the Voroshilov brothers were also at the table. They were discussing the general situation of Kaliningrad, and battle plans. "I say we keep our front lines as close to theirs as possible. It will prevent them from using long-range artillery and carpet bombing to avoid fratricide. Our men will engage in close-quarters battle, going hand to hand against the enemy if they must. We will keep the majority of the fighting in the city, to prevent efficient use of enemy tanks."

Zhukov nodded, and Yeremenko concurred. Chuikov was known for his daring manoeuvres and attacks. His men were often inspired by his ideas and strategies, all justified with success. There were times when they did not physically achieve much, but on the operational level, the goals had been satisfied. This was one of those times.

"The three factories – the Voroshilov Metal Works, the Kaliningrad Automobile Factory and the Kaliningrad Clothing Works – have all come under direct enemy fire. The front lines are getting closer. The enemy almost has the first railway station," reported Fedor Voroshilov. His tank divisions were all involved in the defence of the factories, now that armoured reinforcements were no longer coming. The airfields south of the Shirma were all under COG control now, leaving them only the option of sending armour across the dam, by hovercraft, and by helicopter. Heavy armour would simply not be able to traverse the Shirma River on its own. Amphibious light tanks and IFVs constantly pushed across the Shirma, straight into the fighting.

"The factories must be held," declared Zhukov. "They must. At any cost. If we lose any of the factories, we will be neck-deep in shit." The factories were vital. They recycled all parts that could be scavenged, turning out new weapons and new parts for vehicles. These parts would be transported to the other massive factories just a few hundred metres away, where vehicles and weapons would be assembled. The Clothing Works were also of great importance – they were manufacturing and repairing winter clothing for the troops.

"We understand that – the 30th Artillery Division has been diverted to support the factories. The air force is covering our artillery on the north bank of the Shirma… and the new artillery pieces have been deployed," said Filipp Voroshilov, referring to the rocket artillery. These were rocket systems mounted on large truck beds, much larger than the average industrial truck. They were nicknamed 'Katyusha', after a famous traditional song that was created in wartime. Men at the frontlines were often deprived of love and sex. To keep them sane, some female influence was required. These Katyusha rocket systems fired large rockets, or with other modules, missiles that carried submunitions. These ranged from mines to high-explosive grenades that would brutally kill any infantry and destroy any un-armoured vehicles caught within the blast range. The Soviets had been expecting to deal with large infantry formations, and developed the airburst round. Figuring that this was not enough, they decided to develop something else – and out came the Katyusha.

The COG would come to know and fear this weapon. Many came to call it 'Kalinin's Choir' – the rocket and missile launches left huge trails of smoke and condensation, clearly visible on the steppe outside of Kaliningrad and from the mountain. They produced waves of booms upon launch that sounded like explosions. The vibrations seemed to shake the world around them. The rockets roared across the battlefield at high speed like a fighter jet. When many fired at once, it was a sight to behold. Orange cones formed along the horizon, and then streaked across the sky into the battlefield, clouds of smoke and dirt forming behind the launchers. The roars of the launchers and the projectiles could be heard from miles away. The Soviets always welcome them, and the COG troops always wondered to themselves why they had no such weapons systems on their side despite their technological advantages.

Yeremenko almost laughed. Filipp looked like a boy with his new toys, eager to test them out in battle for the first time as he pored over the map. Fedor, on the other hand, seemed more concerned about the Voroshilov Metal Works, his family's legacy. One of his ancestors had been a general in the Russian military, a tradition that seemed unavoidable for the children of all Soviet military men. How these two came to be brothers, he would never guess, but he found it entertaining anyway.

The new Soviet positions were updated. The KISPECS was now marked as Soviet territory, but was also on the front lines. No man's land was right in front of it, COG trenches only a few hundred metres away.

While they discussed strategy, men were on the opposite bank bleeding and dying.

Good men.

Soviet men.

**COG Bunker, south of KISPECS**

An IFV pulled up next to the bunker. Lucas walked outside, keeping low. He did not want to be the victim of a sniper shot from 500 metres away. He knew the enemy was watching their lines with their marksmen hidden from plain view. The cowards.

The door opened, and out came a soldier, saluting. "Sergeant Mancini! 30th Mechanised, reserve platoon, section one, reporting for duty." The soldier looked around, confused. And then he saw a man wearing a woollen coat, now a trademark of the Soviet Union. "Oh my god, the enemy!!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Lucas asked, grabbing the man and tackling him to the ground. The stunned soldier looked at Lucas through the visor of his helmet, a look of puzzlement on his face. "Never salute on the battlefield! Ever!"

"But… it's in the protocol…"

"Fuck the protocol. This is Kaliningrad. Saluting a man is like telling him he's about to die. Snipers are watching for officers and squad leaders from half a klick away. Anyone of significance will be killed on sight," hissed Lucas. He had seen his officer's head blown off just yesterday. Earlier that morning, a machine gunner learned how to smoke through a new hole in his eye. He did not want to be next on the list. He let go of the young man, sitting up. "And why are you wearing the suits?"

"Why aren't YOU wearing the suit? It's the uniform," asked the young man, now noticing the crudely-sewn on COG insignia patch on the left breast of the coat. "I almost mistook you for the enemy."

"Trust me… You don't want to wear that suit. Not in this hell." Lucas looked up at the sky, into the vast white and blue, for a moment. The clouds were thickening, and snow was falling thicker, harder and faster each day. Temperatures were dropping below zero on a regular basis now. Snow in some places was becoming difficult to walk through. Many men had fallen victim to snow blindness; their helmet visors offered no protection against the sun's rays. "That suit will save them the trouble of making you a coffin. And that helmet too."

The entire section of men, crouching down with their weapons in their hands and looking at each other, were unsure of what to do. They were not wearing winter wear underneath their suits – all they had for protection against moderate winter conditions were their suits and helmets. He could not possibly expect them to go around in their summer field jackets, could he?

"We've got nothing else to wear," the first man said.

"Come with me," said Lucas, leading them into the bunker dug into the ground. The walls and ceiling were reinforced with wood, to help stabilise them and prevent them from collapsing. Inside the bunker, there was a counter made out of packed soil. On it were stacked many ushanka and some sets of telogreika. "Ditch your helmets and use the hats instead. Those of you, who can fit into those body warmers, put them on. Ditch your suits. They're useless out here. For those who don't have any, I'm sorry, but we're out. Those things are in short supply and very popular with our men. If you happen to find any dead, strip them and see if you can wear them." He looked toward a corner of the bunker, lit by an old hurricane lamp. Lamps were hung on the walls of the bunkers; one was not enough to provide illumination. The light from the lamps was reflected off the side of a stack of many variants of power suits. "You don't want to be a walking steel coffin. Not here, not on the front lines."

"Would High Command approve of this?" asked the man as his section members switched their helmets for the much warmer ushanka. Lucas was beginning to find him annoying, but for public relations' sake, he did not want any trouble.

"What High Command thinks doesn't matter. In Kaliningrad, there's only one thing that matters." He looked at the younger man, eyes full of energy and the glimmer of youth. He was not very old himself, but already he could feel the war causing that same energy in him to ebb away day by day, bit by bit. In the months that he had been fighting, he had seen enough happen to want to just die and let it be over with. But Fate dealt him a cruel hand. It would not let him die. He wanted to know what this young soldier thought, and looked him right in the eyes. He could not be any older than nineteen or twenty. "What do you think it is?"

"Success?"

Lucas bore a small grin on his face. Like every inspired COG warrior, the young soldier believed in victory, and he believed in success. That, to him, mattered more than his own survival. He had once been like the young man, without a care in the world, thinking he was invincible… until he saw stack upon stack, plane load upon plane load of mutilated bodies stuffed into coffins, sent back to the Fatherland.

The word escaped his mouth.

"Survival."

**Ferry Landing**

"Forward, comrades! We will feed the fascists hot lead!" shouted a commissar, waving his men onwards. He led the way, red flag in his hands flying high above his head. He charged up the river bank, a mountain of grey-black debris and black earth. The sands of the Shirma bank were no longer their pristine white, the result of war. The path up the bank had been paved by the feet of thousands of men and women, many of whom never made it up there. Their feet had carved into the earth several chest-deep trenches. Under heavy bombardment from artillery, bombs and under fire from machineguns, they charged straight up the steep river bank.

The Red Army's path was marked with blood. Bodies slid and rolled down the slope. Orderlies picked up the wounded and dead to be transported back to the other bank, even while under fire.

"Come, comrades! The enemy will not stop us!" the commissar screamed at the top of his voice, charging ahead. At least four large-calibre machineguns fired from the buildings at the top of the bank.

An officer watched the commissar running up the bank, taking cover behind a small pile of debris. He flattened himself against the ground, squinting to keep the dirt out of his eyes. The red-hot barrels of the machineguns spewed out bullet after bullet. By the dozens, Red troops were cut in half. He had to do something about this. He looked around, and saw a body with a large pack on its back. Two of the guns ceased firing. He seized the opportunity, dumping his rifle, running out and grabbing the body. With all his might he hauled. Two men saw him in this act. One helped him, grabbing the body and pulling, while the other provided covering fire, putting bullets over the enemy machine gunner's head. It did not take long for the machinegun to rip him in half.

"Shit! Anatoly!" shouted the man who was assisting him. Anatoly's guts had landed all over him.

"Shut up! Pick up his rifle and cover me!" The officer quickly grabbed the receiver from the side of the large metal contraption. It was a field signal set. He tested it while the other man fired his rifle.

"What are you doing? Move forward!!" screamed a commissar to their right through his loudhailer, at the officer and the soldier. He was huddled behind the wreckage of an overturned supply truck, with his submachine gun slung across his body.

"What do we do?" he asked, crouching down as the officer began making a call, adjusting the frequency.

"Shoot him!" the excited officer exclaimed, waiting for a response. The other two machineguns ceased firing, while the first two resumed the barrage. Artillery and mortar shells hissed overhead, landing on the riverbank. "What are you waiting for?"

"Move forward! Now!" ordered the commissar again. He was infuriated by how they were trying his patience. "You are a traitor to the Motherland!" He dropped the loudhailer, picking up his submachine gun.

"You're hopeless!" the officer dropped the receiver and grabbed his rifle, putting the stock to his shoulder and taking aim. He quickly got a bead on the target, and fired without hesitation. The rifle kicked back into his shoulder. The commissar fell backwards onto the ground in a spray of red. "Keep firing!" He returned to the receiver.

"This is the 30th Artillery Division. Who is this?"

"I am Lieutenant Asimov of the 13th Guards Regiment! We need artillery support at the riverbank in front of the ferry landing! We are taking heavy fire!" he screamed. He could barely hear anything other than the artillery shells that seemed to blast the air out of the entire place. He found himself hardly able to breathe. "Give us some support!"

"That's what we're here for. Where do you need it?"

"On the top of the riverbank! Flatten those fascists!"

"On the way. Watch your heads!" With that, the artilleryman passed the order. Asimov watched the horizon. He could still see the other bank from here, through the fog and smoke. In the distance, he saw small orange spheres forming in a straight line, streaking across the sky. There were at least six, he counted. More spheres formed with each passing moment, and he smiled to himself, knowing the artillery crews were doing their jobs. The spheres became cones, and the roar of their rocket engines was clear even through the bombardment.

Hundreds of explosions followed. The rockets had each deployed dozens of high-explosive grenades, all of which could easily destroy a wall. The machineguns stopped firing. The explosions were still ongoing. The Reds made full use of this chance, running straight up the bank toward the enemy positions.

Thick clouds of smoke and dirt had formed, blanketing the top of the riverbank with a bluish-grey fog. Men coughed as they climbed upwards and through the rotten, blackened hulks of concrete that were once buildings.

Asimov was awed by the destructive power of this new artillery. He had never seen it in action, although he had heard much about it. He stood up with a smile, joining his comrades in battle with his rifle. He somehow felt inspired by this weapon. It made him feel that victory was at hand.

How right, yet how wrong.

**200 metres South of TIK, Soviet Lines**

"They are too many!" came a shout to the right. Gunfire erupted from all around the institute's entrance. "We must fall back!"

"There is nowhere to fall back to! Nowhere! There is no land beyond the Shirma!" exclaimed Isidora, lobbing a grenade through the window before stepping backwards to avoid a deadly shower of bullets. "Here is where we fight and stand! We bear the torch for our Motherland! Fight!" She fired at the enemy in the opposite block, who were hiding behind sandbags and slabs of concrete. "Die, you pigs!" She hurled a Molotov cocktail at the enemy, who scrambled out of cover to avoid being consumed by the flames.

"Comrade!" shouted Mikhail, tapping Isidora on the shoulder twice. "Left flank! Armour!"

"Right flank! Helicopter!" exclaimed one soldier, pointing at it like a madman.

"The machineguns are out of ammunition!"

"We are out of antitank rounds!"

"No more rockets!" a panicked woman shouted, running away from the wall and dropping the empty rocket launcher. Large-calibre bullets punched holes in the concrete wall, ripping it apart. More bursts of chaingun fire followed.

"We must go, Kapitan!" shouted Mikhail, pulling the stubborn Isidora by her tunic. She gritted her teeth; she was bleeding from the shoulder. "Come!" She relented after a tense moment, hurrying down the staircase with Mikhail and out into the park. He led the way, sprinting for his life. Machinegun fire followed them closely behind. Other Soviet soldiers were retreating en masse. The enemy was pushing forward.

Mikhail leapt into the fountain, and Isidora followed. This fountain had once been part of a display of works of art in the park. It used to hold water. Now it held blood. He landed on several bodies. One wounded man, missing both legs below the knee, held his rifle in his hands as he leaned against several bodies. He was committed to this fight, and he would fight to his dying breath.

Tracer rounds filled the air, cracking back and forth over their heads.

Mikhail crunched together below the rim of the fountain, putting a hand on his hat. He heard the whirring of a tank turret, followed soon after by a loud boom. The air overhead was blasted away by a wave of heat. The round impacted a broken wall, destroying what was left of it and dropping it on some poor soul.

The gunfire ceased. The Red troops had lost their fire in the face of overwhelming odds. Farm boys. Isidora's assumption was mostly correct. Few of those involved in the fighting and still left alive were regular soldiers. Most were poor factory workers given old sports and hunting rifles to fight with. They were short on weapons and ammunition on this side of the Shirma.

The droning of an engine and the rumbling of the ground signalled the approach of a tank. Isidora, crouching, looked at it and then at Mikhail, who was looking right back at her. He lay on his back in the broken fountain, looking round him. Wounded men wriggled around in their pain, unable to scream because of their muscle spasms. "Play dead," he said. An idea had struck him.

"What?"

"Play dead! Come on!" he hissed, dropping his rifle. He wrapped his arms around the squirming woman's waist and pulled her close to him. He dipped his gloved hand in some of the blood and wiped it over one spot on the back of her tunic. "Just play along! Shhh!"

He leaned against the wall of the fountain, letting his left arm fall flat. His right arm held onto Isidora. He turned his head to the side, letting his mouth hang slightly open as if he were dead. Isidora, resigned to it, simply lay atop Mikhail, taking in shallow, controlled breaths. She could smell his masculine scent – a mixture of perspiration, dirt, smoke and gunpowder. She obviously could not have expected much better; nobody had had a proper shower in over a month. The most they could do was splash a little water on their faces. Even then, the water was unclean.

Quietly, they remained in that position without so much as a twitch. All movement was painfully slow and controlled. It was difficult to breathe, with layers of clothing on him, including the bullet-resistant vest he had on. Her blonde ponytail swept across his face as she put hers on top of his for comfort. It was tiring to hold her neck up, craned over his shoulder. It permitted him to see what was going on, through gaps in the hair.

"Mercy… Help… please…" muttered a desperate soldier. It was the same one who had lost his legs. He threw down his rifle and raised his arms. Mikhail could not see his face through the hair, but he was reasonably sure that it was one that begged them for mercy.

"_Verbrennen Sie das kommunistische Schwein_."

"_Jawohl_!"

What were they saying? Something about a communist swine…

The shattering of glass and the sound of flames catching was familiar to their ears. Flames from a Molotov cocktail engulfed the poor bastard as he writhed in agony, his body burning to a crisp. Laughter echoed through the smoke-filled and lifeless streets covered in ash and snow. They watched him burn, refusing to shoot him to put him out of his misery. The cruel sons of bitches.

Lancers opened fire, drilling holes in the bodies in the fountain and in the wounded men and women. This was followed soon after by more laughter, the likes of which Mikhail had never heard before. It was full of malice, but at the same time it sounded like they were seeking vengeance for some kind of injustice. Just what kind of people were these characters?

The tank rolled past, and the soldiers followed it down the streets.

Satisfied that the danger had passed, Mikhail tapped Isidora's back with his right hand. "I think we're safe now. They're gone." He felt Isidora relax a little, taking in a deep breath. "But we're not out of this yet. We must get back to the front. They probably don't know we are missing in action."

"Then we can't use our communications either. They may be intercepted," she said. He nodded, and peeked above the wall of the fountain.

"It's clear. Come on." He grabbed his rifle from the floor and crouched back up. He looked left and right. There was nothing except the bleak expanse of ruins, the smoke clouds overhead and the mild snowfall. "Let's go." She nodded, grabbing her own AKS, following behind him as he led the way. Somehow, despite being his superior in rank and in training, she was following Mikhail. She did not quite understand why, but the fact that his decision had gotten them out of that mess alive seemed to tell her enough about his judgement as a soldier.

"No noises. We can't shoot anyone," she said, following him away from the fountain. They were heading in the same direction as the enemy had gone, but they could not afford to cross the lines in the day. They would have to wait until nightfall, and crawl back under cover of darkness.

"_Achtung_! _Hände__ hoch_!" A nervous voice shouted from the left. Mikhail froze in the middle of the street. They had been spotted already! "_Kommen Sie hier_!_ Schnell_!" He turned his head to the left, and sure enough, a lone soldier held his Lancer up, aimed at the two of them. "_Schnell!_"

He observed the soldier. His hands gripped the rifle until his arms shook. He was tense – he must be new to the fight. And young. They could probably kill him, but that would risk that either of them would get hit. Even if they got through unscathed, there was still the COG army to deal with. They could not risk letting anyone know of their presence. With his left hand he beckoned them forward, shifting his stance nervously.

"Okay. Okay, we'll come," Mikhail said, slowly raising his arms. He put the rifle on the ground, and slowly stood up. Isidora followed suit, though she did not like the idea of it. It would be a great propaganda and intelligence coup for the COG to capture their most famous heroine and parade her around for the world to see.

"Why are we doing this?" she asked, stepping in line behind him.

"Do we have a choice?"

"_Kommunisten. Ich spreche kein Russisch. Nur zwei?_"

"Do you speak German? Mine's… rusty." he asked her. She shook her head firmly. She had no idea what the man was talking about. All she was concerned about was why she was standing directly in an enemy's line of fire, Mikhail staring down the barrel. "_I_..._ Ich_..._ Ich spreche kein Deutsche_."

"_Sie sprechen kein Deutsche_?" The man laughed, and began talking and laughing more as if he found what Mikhail said funny.

"What did you tell him?" she asked him, raising an eyebrow, her hands still up at chest level.

"I speak no German," he said, puzzled as to why he was laughing. The weapon was still levelled at his head, so he was not about to take any chances. He heard the unlocking of the rifle's safety, and stiffened up immediately. Was he going to shoot?

A hiss came overhead, and the explosion shook the ground. Another followed, and the ground shook again. The Ballista artillery batteries were shelling the general area, to thin the numbers of COG reinforcements on their way to the front. Mikhail could not hear a thing the man was saying over the din of the shelling. The barrel came closer to his face, almost pressed into his eye. The screaming soldier continued in his rebuke, but Mikhail could only shrug and express his puzzlement.

The soldier lowered his weapon for just a moment. For just an instant his rifle was pointed toward the ground, away from the would-be prisoners.

Perfectly timed, just as a shell exploded, the earth rumbling beneath his feet, the soldier's head split open. The helmet was perforated with a rather large bullet hole in the front right section. The body crumpled to the ground, shivering and thrashing spasmodically.

Mikhail and Isidora ducked, looking around. That shot was expertly timed and aimed. It had cut through the man's helmet and skull. The shot was completely unheard over the barrage of artillery shells. They wasted no time, picking up the weapons and going into hiding.

Mikhail leaned against the wall of the damp, smelly cellar. An oil lamp in the opposite corner of the room gave off some light. Dust shook loose from the ceiling. The bombardment was not letting up at all. He kept his weapon pointed towards the staircase landing. He and Isidora were hiding, and did not want to risk being spotted immediately. If they were, however… He had no intention of dying without a fight.

He looked at the woman curled up with her arms wrapped around her legs, tucked in close to her body. "You look like hell. Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

"Wake me up when you're tired," she said. He nodded with a smile that she did not see. She shut her eyes, the dim light fading into darkness.

He almost laughed at his own thoughts, at this point. Any man would kill for a chance to be caught in a dark cellar with a beauty of this kind, even in the stink and dirt of war. But no, he knew better than that. Isidora Petrova was famous for her prowess in and out of battle. Especially in dark rooms, where things happened that should never see the light of day.

"Whoever it is who fired that shot…" she muttered. "I hope he's on our side."

Mikhail nodded to himself. He hoped so too. Such a marksman was dangerous. So dangerous, it gave a new flavour to city fighting.

The sniper.


	12. Comrade Fascist

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 11**

The snow fell heavier this day. It was getting thicker every time it fell. Despite this, the fighting continued. New COG weapons had been fielded, much to the horror of the Soviets. Among these were precision-guided intelligent munitions that would actively seek out Soviet armour and vehicles, and a much-improved grenade launcher that could be stripped and turned into a machinegun in less than 2 minutes by a trained crew.

"Mein Fuhrer," said Hoffman, looking at Schmidt, at his seat in the war room. His expensive dark green leather coat bore lines of white light from the ceiling. His fingers were interlocked again, an obvious sign of frustration. Hoffman knew better than to tell Schmidt the truth of the war, but he had to, for the sake of the overall war effort. "We have made little gains on Kaliningrad. The enemy has pushed us back with fierce counterattacks from the 12th Guards Regiment at the Kaliningrad Infantry Specialists' School. We have pushed northwards again and retaken some territory in front of the TIK and our forces are approaching the three factories and the harbour."

"After 1 month you have advanced 100 metres? What is this?!" Schmidt was infuriated by the incompetence of his men and his commanders. He bashed the table with his fist twice, jarring the generals to alertness. Schumacher, poker-faced as ever, seemed more amused than afraid. His fist was clenched so tight that they could see the white of his bones even through his meaty fingers. One of those fingers snapped outwards towards the standing Hoffman. "The men of our glorious Fatherland are the greatest warriors in existence! We have advanced technology, and we have superior manpower! How is it that we have not yet crushed the Red resistance?"

"Our supply lines have been overstretched until recently… And then Vulcania cut us off from our troops. They have control of the entire mountain range and the valley, and they will not permit us entry. We have 10 million troops north of Vulcania in total. We have managed to transport new weapons by airlift, and we can keep the supplies going, but even then we have our limits. We are fighting a three-front war and the North is cut off."

"You think I don't understand that?!" snapped Schmidt. He was the one who had authorised the general offensives against all the enemies. And he was angry. The People's Republic was fighting a guerrilla war, with its inferior equipment and manpower. Tiper was using Red Army equipment, and was equally inspired towards its freedom from the clutches of the COG. He had also ordered the drafting of all able-bodied men of all ages to go to the front lines. All who could contribute to the war effort were to do so immediately. He – and the people of the united Fatherland – wanted to win this war. "There is only one solution then."

The room was filled with tension so thick that it practically starved them of oxygen. They awaited Schmidt's next directive, tingling to their boots with excitement and fear. It would either be a bold move that resulted in success, or one that would result in terrible destruction and disaster. They waited, and he spoke.

"Flatten Vulcania."

The generals looked at each other. Some approved, some didn't. Hoffman, uptight as ever, took in a deep breath and sighed. More troops were to be taken from the fronts to fight in Vulcania. They had two options at this point.

The first was a pincer attack on Vulcania. They would draw one army each from the occupation forces on the Northern and Northeast fronts. They would then bring out their reserve armies and assault Vulcania, to take it out of the war as soon as possible and open up the supply route to the North.

That left them with one problem.

This would leave fewer men controlling the occupied territories, and even fewer to act as reserve forces for the fronts. Partisans would run rampant, and would probably be able to operate without fear of retaliation. But if they managed to conquer Vulcania quickly, the results of partisan action might be minimised…

The second option was to just pull out the reserve armies to attack Vulcania. That, however, would mean more time spent fighting Vulcania. Time was valuable, and they did not have that luxury right now.

What was Schmidt's decision? As Supreme Commander, all directives he gave were to be followed.

The order was given.

Schumacher was to lead the Army Group V – for Vulcania – which was composed mainly of reserve forces, into Vulcania. All forces were to be committed to the Northern Front. He expected the fighting at the fronts to continue, and he also expected Army Group V to capture Vulcania in the time that they had permitted in their heads for a pincer attack. At that moment Hoffman thought that Schmidt must have gone insane.

He had just signed the death warrants of 10 million men.

**South of KISPECS**

"You have your orders, Sergeant Mancini! Attack now!" The officer screamed through the communications headset attached to his ear. Lucas frowned, bearing the pain in his ear. He wondered why they could not have designed something better. And with longer-lasting batteries. He had stolen this one off a dead officer, after his own had run out of batteries. Charging stations were unavailable in the field at this time. The only place where suits and batteries could be charged was Gumrak Airbase and the battalion command bunker, which was miles away.

Lucas shook his head, waving his men forward with his left arm. He kept his right hand on the trigger as the tanks rolled forward into the darkness of night, opening fire on the enemy. The IFVs followed within the tank formation. One platoon of tanks and IFVs, and a company of infantry had been assigned to do the job of taking the KISPECS again.

"Move, men! You five take the left! The rest come with me!" They were only a hundred metres away from the enemy positions – they had had their reservations against attacking the KISPECS, and raised it with battalion command, but those were all brushed aside. Lucas hurried forward, boots sloshing through the wet snow as the tanks rolled over it.

With no warning at all, one of the tanks was blasted to bits. The turret was flung skyward, ripped from the hull. The tank fell apart from the inside out. A shell had penetrated the thin top armour and detonated inside it. Lucas looked up, and he saw the faint image of an aircraft, reflecting some moonlight. It looked like a cargo plane. He could not decide whether to laugh or cringe. It was a Thanatos, better known as the _**Unteroffizer vom Dienst**_ – the Duty NCO. These aircraft were crewed exclusively by females, who were in turn called the _**Nachthexen**_, or Night Witches. They gladly accepted this title.

That plane was known for its relative silence in the dead of night. Its propulsion system generated very little noise, announcing its presence only through bursts of Gatling gun, chaingun and howitzer fire. It was also said to be difficult to detect on radar. It would unload its payload on unsuspecting COG positions with astounding violence and intensity, and then take its leave, masked in the dark of night. This was much like how the Duty NCO would come, wake troops up in the wee hours of the morning to do work, and then take his leave, never to be seen again.

"Take cover!" he shouted, grabbing one man and hitting the snow face-first. Hundreds of puffs of snow and dirt ripped across the battlefield. Two IFVs were perforated, and went up in flames. A howitzer round hit another tank, destroying it as well. Then the firing ceased. He looked around to the left and right. "Anyone hit?" asked Lucas.

"No. No, Sergeant! We're fine! Can't say the same for the rest though."

"Doesn't matter. We keep pushing! Move!" ordered Lucas. They continued into the dark of night. "Flares!" he called out into the headset. Illumination rounds were launched overhead, trailing sparks as they rose to the sky. Little parachutes deployed, enabling their delayed descent. These rounds provided a bright bluish-white light overhead that illuminated a large area, allowing them to see in the night. "Fire!" He pulled the trigger twice on his Lancer, sending two bursts at an enemy machine gunner. "The enemy is tired and weak! Attack!"

A Molotov cocktail came over their heads. Its trajectory was marked with its orange flame, which seemed to leave afterimages as it sailed through the air and impacted the ground, setting fire to the entrance of the KISPECS compound. Gunfire erupted from almost all the windows, and antitank rockets were launched at the tanks and IFVs, which returned fire immediately.

Main tank gun rounds and chainguns shredded the concrete walls with ease. Lucas and his men advanced, leading the attack. The other team of five gathered behind a wall to the left, while he and his men crouched behind the blackened, flaming wreckage of a tank and some sandbags.

They got the shock of their lives.

"UURRAAAAAAAAHH!!"

Lucas turned his head left and right. Where the hell was that infernal shout coming from? Were they so crazy as to charge into the fray just like this?

And then he caught sight of them.

They were coming from **BEHIND**!

Reds leapt out of the snow like dragons awakened from a long slumber, clothed in white suits. They hurled grenades and opened fire on them from behind. They planted explosive charges on the tank tracks and engine exhausts, detonating them. They had been caught with their pants down!

"Return fire!" shouted Lucas, throwing the grenade back where it came from. It exploded in mid-air, showering the Reds with shrapnel. Screaming men fell to the ground, triggers pulled and firing rounds into the air. With the rest of his team, he put down the remaining Reds. One came close to him, thrusting his bayonet forward. He smacked it aside with one hand and bashed the Red in the nose with his Lancer, raising it above his head and revving the chainsaw. It spelled doom for the poor sod as Lucas brought it down, yelling in rage as he cut through flesh and bone from the neck to the left armpit. By the time he was done, the man was in two pieces and he was covered in blood. What a waste of good clothing. But he was also concerned. Soon his chainsaw would run out of power.

Not that it mattered right now.

"Come on! That's not all of them! Attack!" The stubborn Reds defended their positions relentlessly. Where they pushed forward, the Reds pushed back and threw grenades. With all their armoured support gone, the COG men could only hope that the enemy would surrender or run out of ammunition. "Into the building! To the right!" Lucas primed a grenade and planted it on the door, moving back to take cover. He had learned from that time at the crossroads not to kick the doors in.

It went off with a bang, tearing the door down. Through holes in the wall machineguns, submachine guns and assault rifles opened fire. A loud crack echoed over the gunfire, and one of Lucas' men fell to the ground. He dropped his Lancer, screaming and grabbing the remainder of his left thigh as he rolled to the left.

"Leave him!" he shouted, tossing his last grenade into the room and putting suppressing fire on the door and walls. "Advance!"

"No, I can't leave him!" shouted another soldier, coming out from behind cover and grabbing the man by his leg. "Come here! I'll take you hom-" Another loud crack, and the man's body fell atop his comrade. His skull was now in a dozen pieces. A great spray of blood rose into the air, and grey matter splattered all over the place.

Lucas could not say that he did not care about these men. Each and every one of them mattered. Each one was a family member, in the brotherhood of soldiers. He had no choice but to take on a veneer of indifference, to hang on to the last shreds of his sanity on the battlefield.

Swiftly, the COG troops removed the resistance building by building, room by room. They ran themselves and the enemy out of grenades and ammunition. By dawn, they had reached a stalemate. COG troops surrounded the barracks, some in the open and some in buildings. Windows bristled with gun muzzles. All the buildings' rooftops had been shelled in, and all inside were completely exposed.

"Comrade… We are outnumbered. We used up all the ammunition we have," a Guardsman said to his commanding officer, waiting for his orders. "We have to retreat."

"We were given orders to hold this position, Comrade. We cannot retreat."

"But… We have no more bullets to fight with, Comrade!"

"Then we will use our bare hands!" snapped the officer, dropping his unusable assault rifle and pulling out the spike bayonet. "In Kaliningrad we have two options, Comrade. We can go back and eat Soviet bullets, or we can go forward and eat COG ones.." He then turned to the sniper, who had wiped dust and dirt on his clothing for camouflage. "You, Comrade Sniper, must return to your post. We have held you here long enough. Thank you for your help."

The sniper nodded, slithering away out the room and down the corridor.

Lucas leaned against the wall, breathing in deep. The assault, the appalling conditions of battle and the stress of having not slept for two nights had taken its toll on his body. He could hardly believe he was still alive after not having a proper shower for an entire month. He breathed in deep, taking in the cold, dry air to stimulate his nerves and keep him awake.

"Do any of you speak Russian?" he asked, looking at his remaining six men and one woman.

"I do," the lady said. "Do you need me to say something?"

"Yeah. Tell them this…"

The officer waited, crouching and looking through a hole in the wall. Snowflakes were falling again, and all was quiet. He listened for enemy movement, as the remainder of his company who were capable of fighting knocked off pieces of concrete and pulled out loose rebar.

"Comrades of the Red Army!" a woman's voice shouted, disgustingly accented. How could they ruin such a beautiful language with their vulgar articulation? "We do not wish to kill anymore! You may retreat; we just want the building!"

The officer immediately smiled, a witty reply waiting behind his teeth.

"I am sorry, Comrade Fascist! In the Soviet Army, it takes more courage to retreat than to advance. I am afraid we are not as brave as you, so ready to return to your smelly, muddy trenches and hot cups of coffee!" he replied with a huge grin. His soldiers could hardly contain their laughter.

"Comrade Communist! We really do not want to take any more lives! We will give you food, water, clothing and a place to sleep! If you join us, we promise your freedom after the war is over! Consider the offer!"

"Hah!" he scoffed, throwing his head back in laughter. "All the warm clothing you are wearing is from us! You steal our ushanka, and you rob us of our food. You take Babushka's underwear and stuff it into your pants because you can't keep your balls warm in our winter! And here you have the cheek to offer us warm clothing. You hypocrites!"

"Then we are sorry it has to end this way. In another lifetime, without these weapons, we could have been brothers." And with that, the COG troops advanced.

"Attack!" the officer and Lucas shouted at the same time.

"_Za Rodinu_!" Lucas heard them shout. "_Za Kalinina_!_ Pobyeda_!" He and his men opened fire with their last magazines, using bursts to conserve ammunition.

"Grenades!" he shouted, crouching down as he observed a Red soldier tossing a round object. Something hard hit the top of his hat. He scrambled to his feet, but he saw no grenades. Then something else smacked into his face, leaving a red mark and two scratches that drew blood. Panicking, he ran away, and his men followed. The other COG troops, taking hits, knew not what to do and followed the squad that had just run away, firing their last shots.

An object landed at his feet as he was wiping the blood from his face.

He picked it up.

"What the hell? This is…" Immediately blood rushed to his face. The Soviets had repelled them with concrete! More of this debris was coming their way, and they were out of ammunition.

"What do we do? Throw it back?"

"Shut up, smartass."

The earth shook hard. And then it shook again. He felt his trousers rubbing against his sore bum.

He looked around.

He knew exactly what was coming.

*****

"Comrade Lieutenant! Are you hit?"

"It's… just a scratch…" said the officer, holding onto his right hip with his left hand. He felt something warm and sticky.

Blood.

"Grr…"

"We need to get you out of here. You are wounded!"

"No, comrade. We swore to fight for our Motherland. There is nowhere else to go. If we let them get past us, we fought our way here for nothing. We fight… to the last breath," he said, clutching tightly in his hand the spike bayonet from his rifle.

"We will do the fighting," said the soldier, dragging him to a bunk and laying him on the wooden base. The mattress had been taken away to the field hospital, and the sheets were now probably being used as bandages. "Comrade, we will fight."

"Good soldiers. You are all… good soldiers. Now get out there and fight." The young man nodded, and stepped away from the bedside.

"Come, comrades! We attack! Urrah!"

"Urrah!" they shouted in unison, practically leaping down the staircase and out into the fight with their empty rifles and spike bayonets. Their presence was met with silence, except for the crackling of fires.

"Where is the enemy?"

"The cowards have fled! Let them run!"

"Urrah!!" they cheered. They were so relieved that they did not have to fight now. They thanked whatever God was up there and the powers that be, together heaving great sighs of relief.

"Whoa!" A man fell to his rear, landing in the snow. He had lost his footing.

"What is the matter, Yuri? Now is no time to be relaxing! We must go and get some ammunition!"

A great boom echoed across the parade square. And then another, and another. And another. They sounded like heavy footfalls, accompanied by the whining of machinery, like the joints of a robot.

"You are the enemy of the People," the voice boomed as it took another step forward, shaking everything around it. They trembled, pointing their rifles and bayonets. Clicks resounded. They had forgotten that there was no ammunition in the magazines. They looked as the figure stepped out of the orange-black fog of smoke and condensation, into plain view. In its left hand was a great shield, and in its right, a hammer so large that it seemed as if it could squash a man flat right where he stood. The Soviets looked at him – _IT_ – in fear. "Surrender now, to the will of the People, and your life will be spared."

Another step shook them from their boots to their necks.

"How do we fight this… THING?"

"I don't know, Comrade," the panicked sergeant said, taking a few nervous steps backwards. His boots squeaked against the slippery surface of the parade square. "I don't know."

The earth shook twice in rapid succession. They looked up again. They rubbed their eyes, hoping and praying that they were hallucinating. But they were not.

"Oh God, there are TWO of these things?! Fuck you Comrade Sergeant, I'm surrendering!"

"Private Yuri Borisov! Come back here, you coward!" shouted the sergeant. The defector was far out of reach by the time he had noticed. Other men followed him as well. "Where are you going? You are traitors to the Motherland! Have you no shame?" Most of the company had gone over, leaving only a platoon of them there with their bayonets and rifles, staring at the hulks of metal with their shields and hammers.

"Do you surrender?" the voice demanded.

"Never, fascist! Never!" exclaimed the sergeant, spitting at his feet.

"Then I must destroy you." Both monstrosities lifted their hammers high in to the air, their helmets glowing from the specials sights they were equipped with. They could almost hear the whooshing of the air as the hammers were lifted high. And suddenly, the helmets stopped glowing.

The Reds stared at the two hulks, some cocking their heads curiously. The sergeant raised his eyebrow, and laughed. "Ha-ha! The monsters have run out of power! They cannot move!" he stated excitedly, laughing at their plight. "Just at the right time, too." His men joined in his laughter, pointing and laughing at the huge things. They approached, spitting all over them and kicking them.

"They will not budge, these bastards. Let's see what happens when we poke them."

A soldier pulled back his rifle, ready to bayonet what he thought was a chink in the armour. He bore a great smile on his face, as if he were about to have his way with a defenceless young woman.

_**WHAM!**_

It was a sound like thunder. Jaws rattled and men were swept off their feet. Blood flew about, onto faces and uniforms. A pile of crushed flesh and bones lay where the soldier stood. The hammer remained on the smashed body. "Do not spit on me. Vulgar communists." The sergeant yelled out for his mother as he was grabbed by the leg and thrown into a wall. He was then grabbed by the neck and smashed into the wall, leaving nothing of his skull.

"For the People!" yelled the second, crushing two soldiers together. One frightened soldier sat shivering on the ground, his legs too much like jelly to stand on his feet. He watched as struggling, flailing soldiers were lifted into the air by these seven-foot-tall giants built like tanks and destroyed like they were nothing. Blood was everywhere. His grey ushanka was stained crimson. "My name is Sieghart Emmerich."

"I am Gerhardt Emmerich," boomed the first one, tearing one man in half. He threw the two body parts away and picked up his shield and hammer with his bloodied, gloved hands. The behemoth rose as if he bore the weight of the world on his back, towering over the young man. He would not kill this one. Instead, he would let the boy tell the tales of what he saw. "Remember us. Go. Tell your comrades that they are next."

The frightened soldier took off, running as fast as he could away from the KISPECS. He wanted nothing more than to leave that place, after what he had seen. He ran, and ran.

He could run from them. He could just run away. He could run from this war.

But the memories would haunt him.

Forever.

**1 hour later, KISPECS**

Lucas inspected the bunks with his team. They had recaptured the KISPECS from the enemy, at last.

He had witnessed the earlier slaughter. The Dreadnoughts, they were called. He had worked with them before. They were muscular brutes, but they were smart men who knew what they were doing. They were as well trained as any soldier, but they consumed twice the rations of the average soldier.

He had heard that in the Heroes' Hotel, Gerhardt had only killed the commissar. The women and the rest of the youngsters were allowed to surrender. When one soldier tried to rape one of the teenage girls, he flung the man a full ten yards and warned him not to harm prisoners of war. It was unbecoming of a COG soldier.

It was still hard to believe that they existed, after all these years. They could be as kind as angels, yet as brutal as devils. What they had done to the poor boy was proof of this.

"Sergeant Mancini!"

"Yeah?" he asked, holding his rifle in his right hand and walking over to one of the bunks.

"It's an officer's body," the woman said. "He carved something on the wall."

"Strip the body for clothing and anything useful. Notebooks and maps, even compasses. Anything of use," ordered Lucas.

"Sergeant?" The men and women looked at him. They were all fresh; he could tell. Zero combat experience. Why of all places did Command have to send them here, to Kaliningrad?

"Yes. Do it, now," he said firmly. They did so, removing all articles of clothing from the man. Belt, trousers, boots, footcloths, peaked cap, tunic, even underwear. They tossed the naked body outside, joining his dead comrades in the parade square. Everything that could be used had to be used. Nothing was to be wasted. Then he remembered, as he picked up the spike bayonet from the bunk, feeling the tip with his finger. It was sharp and strong enough to pierce through even the chest plate of their power suits. "What was carved there?"

"Umm… I'm not sure if-"

"Just read it."

"Yes, Sergeant." The woman cleared her throat. "The Twelfth Guards fought and died here for the Motherland..." Her voice trailed off for a moment. He sensed that she was unsure of whether or not to read it out.

"Continue." She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment and taking in a deep breath.

"We will be waiting for you in hell, Comrade Fascist."

Lucas chuckled. So she was afraid that. "Don't be afraid, young lady." She looked at him, somewhat reassured that her sergeant cared for her emotional well-being.

"Do you believe in heaven and hell, Sergeant?" she asked, gripping her Lancer tightly. Lucas smiled a gentle smile. She was still oblivious to the reality, drawn by the romantic notion of fighting for her country. And here she was, discussing the metaphysical. He looked her in the eye, the sparks that shone in his own long gone.

"**Welcome to Hell."**


	13. Hilfswilliger

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 12**

Night came fast to the North, in the winter. Not that it would make all that much difference. The stacks of black smoke clouds hanging overhead blotted out the sun on a regular basis. General Snow would soon take care of that, however. The northern winter winds were fast, powerful and merciless.

"Mikhail," Isidora called out, patting the young soldier's boot twice. He sprang from his slumber as if she had just triggered a mousetrap. She flinched, retracting her hand quickly. She cleared her throat and put the hand underneath the stock of her AKS, pointing it up the staircase.

"Sorry. It happens," he said, patting his face twice to freshen himself. "Night already? A great dream was just coming to mind…"

"Really? What about?" she asked, raising an eyebrow with her back to Mikhail. With the light against her, he could see the outline of her body. She looked to be in very good physical shape, for someone who had spent the last two months fighting a war. On top of that she was a beauty. Her luscious curves, though not protruding to extreme extents, were just right for her. The light clung to the folds, seams and edges of her clothing, some of the orange mixing with her blonde hair.

"An amazing beauty," he said with no exaggeration. His voice was filled with a certain energy, which felt intense and powerful, yet not overbearing and loud. It drew her attention to his voice, whenever he spoke. It was deep and sure, like the steps of a hunter moving to pick up his prize. "The perfect woman. Smells like roses, but like a tiger in a dark room."

"I've heard it all before," she said, smiling to herself wryly. If he was trying to get into her trousers, he would have to try harder than that!

"I'm certain you have, but I would've said it either way, because there are some things you just shouldn't hide," he continued without a change in tone, tapping the magazine and pulling the charging handle. It snapped back into place with two clicks, which echoed in the enclosed basement. "You are a very attractive woman, and also a good commander."

"Thank you," she said. She did not have anything else to add. "Now let's go. Shoulder your rifle. We don't want to fire any shots unless necessary." They heard a dull pop and felt the earth rumble. More shelling, as usual. It had gone on all day, since that barrage south of the TIK. She led the way, slinging the weapon over her shoulder and across her torso, bayonet in her hand. She looked exactly like she did in one of the political propaganda posters he had seen – Isidora Petrova, heroine of the Motherland, leading the way with her faithful Torchbearers.

Inspired, he followed her with his own bayonet in his hand as she ascended the dusty stone steps. With each step their boots ground against the dirt and the stone. This was something they would not have wanted happening, especially at night, but it was forgivable. The artillery shelling masked their footfalls.

Crouched low, Isidora peeked out of the entrance to the cellar. Nobody in sight, only intense bursts of gunfire to the south. That was good, and bad. It meant that there would not be many looking out for spies and surprise raids, but it also meant that crossing no man's land would be that much harder as well.

It would not be easy to cross the wide, open streets back to their lines without being shot at, mistaken for the enemy. Now that the enemy was starting to wear their equipment, they had to strain their eyes to take note of insignia. To ensure proper identification between friend and foe, some of the COG troops had painted the COG emblem on the backs of their coats. Those men became walking bulls-eyes, target practice for newbie snipers.

They had also noted that the enemy was being issued winter coats and parkas to wear over their suits. Isidora remembered stripping a prisoner of war of his clothing, and laughing at their winter equipment. Their expensive boots and coats looked nice, but were inferior to the cheaply manufactured equipment issued to the Soviets. These sorry excuses for men would not last through the toughest of this winter; that was for sure. It was ridiculous to expect to properly supply so many soldiers with equipment of this kind; it was too taxing on the economy. She mused to herself how the coalition would bring about its own downfall. It was like trying to create an explosion with little matchsticks. Impossible.

She peeked to the left and right again, just to be sure. Clear. She swept her left hand past her thigh twice, beckoning him forward silently amid the distant cracks of gunfire and the blasting of tank turrets. Her right hand dangled by her right knee, holding onto the bayonet. The rifle strapped to her body, resting on her back with its barrel pointing to the sky, made no noise as she moved, leading the way down the pavement.

All the streetlights had been destroyed. Some lay across the road, with flattened sections indicating that tanks had passed through and crushed them. Mountains of debris many metres high had been pushed aside to make way for vehicles, but these would provide them with good cover. Isidora looked at the building directly opposite. Half of the apartment building had collapsed on itself, forming a huge ramp made out of fallen concrete slabs and dirt. It looked like someone had just taken a bite out of it, leaving the inside exposed much like a dollhouse. Except there were no dolls, only bodies and some cowering civilians, too young or too wounded to move away from the fighting after they had been caught in it.

"Mikhail," she hissed, waving him over to the debris pile she was hiding behind. He crouched down, neck out like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell, and hurried over hunchbacked. It was a difficult way to move, but it presented the smallest possible target, for the speed he required. He landed next to her quietly, keeping his head down. "We move through here, to the building there. The TIK isn't far from here but we need to get through no man's land – the train tracks."

Mikhail nodded, and his heart beat faster. The train tracks that ran through the Kaliningrad were open areas, highly dangerous and heavily mined. Isidora had earlier told him before he slept that she and her men had personally gone to mine the tracks in the middle of the night, even under enemy fire.

The ruins on both sides were full of guns. Silence in the middle of Kaliningrad did not mean safety. In fact, it was the most dangerous when it was quiet. It was safest when everything around you was going to hell. It meant that you knew where the enemy was coming from.

In silence, however… The enemy could well be digging underground to blast you to pieces from right under your feet. He knew this intimately. He had done it once with a team of men and destroyed the Kaliningrad Central Library, which the enemy was using as a fortress and forward command post. The place fell in on itself. They had also made it a point to burn the COG flags that fell from the building, to let the enemy see their own symbols in ruins.

"It looks clear. Follow me in twenty seconds," she whispered, rising a little to peek over the debris. The flames in Kaliningrad still burned. She could see the TIK from here – the front building was still spewing hot lead at the structures opposite of it. The enemy would soon have control over it, if not already. By now they had probably cut the Twelfth Guards off again. She felt pain in her heart for the men fighting alongside them in this city, probably surrounded again with no support except for the artillery.

Isidora scurried across the ten metres of open ground, to the ramp of debris. On either side of the ramp was a pillar, marking where the building had once stood whole. She scanned carefully as she climbed, carefully testing her footholds to ensure they did not break and slip off, revealing her position. She winced, a tingling sensation travelling down her back. Her shoulder injury was probably getting infected.

Mikhail observed with his bayonet in hand, checking for enemies. It was strange that there were none of them walking around here, patrolling the area they controlled. Twenty seconds were up. No time to think. He hurried across, following her dark figure up the ramp. His coat clung tightly to his body, secured with the standard issue belt. He had scratched out the glossy finishing on the metal buckle; he did not want to give his position away. A reprimand from an officer was better than a bullet to his balls.

"Hear anything?" he asked. She shook her head, creeping forward into the room. The concrete floor betrayed no signs of the enemy, only past violence – a young girl's naked body lay on the torn-up bed in the corner of the room, bruised and bloodied all over. The sheets were stained red, and it reeked of death and another thick, musky smell. No movement. Dead.

"Bastards," she muttered under her breath, creeping forward into the darkness of the house through the open doorway. The only light came from a fire in the centre of the living room, burning out of a used fuel drum. Furniture had been arranged around it in a circle… She took a step forward, and within a moment, wanted to kill herself for it.

Her foot landed on something soft, not like the floor and not like a mattress or soft toy. She looked down, and two white orbs with dark circles in their centres greeted her gaze. Then came the yellowed teeth, positioned to express shock, and an accusatory finger pointed in her direction. "_Feind!!_" Panicking, she raised her leg and drove the heel of her left boot into his skull. She then stabbed him in the windpipe with the spike bayonet, pushing it down as he wriggled and twisted in his pain. He tried to scream, from what she observed, but nothing came out, only the leaking of air bubbles through blood.

"Kapitan." No response. "Comrade Kapitan," he hissed again. He put a hand on hers, which was still grabbing the bayonet. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around it that her entire arm was trembling, and she was breathing rapidly. "Comrade!" he patted her back, and she sprung from the body with the bayonet lifted over her head.

He caught a glimpse of something that he never thought he would see – Isidora's beautiful face, contorted into a mix of fear and anger. Tears marked her face with glistening lines, and the bayonet glowed in the light of the city's fires. It was there for just a moment. When she recognised Mikhail's face and voice, she lowered her arm. She fell forward, and he took hold of her with his arms. He looked past her shoulder into the room, patting her back twice lightly.

Then he realised that there was no time for this. "Kapitan. We…" he gestured toward the room with his head, and she followed his gaze. All around them were dark figures, drowsy and groggy from sleep, getting up from their bedrolls and from the floor and walls. Not another word had to be said. There were too many. Mikhail put his bayonet into the chest of one man as he rose from his slumber. He pulled it out, grabbing Isidora by the hand and leading her in.

"_FEINDLICHE INFANTERIE_!" a man exclaimed before he was quickly silenced by Mikhail's bayonet. Isidora regained her senses and joined in the violent hand-to-hand combat. The soldiers had no time to pick up their weapons. Mikhail stabbed first the ones who did, throwing their bodies at other attackers. There was easily an entire platoon of men in this room. His arm moved like a piston, forward and backward, in and out, over and over again. Enemy after enemy received a bayonet to the chest, the abdomen, the throat or the face.

No mercy. No retreat. No prisoners.

They had to do this quick, and get out of it alive together. One by one the men fell, bleeding from a dozen holes in their bodies.

He heard the revving of a chainsaw. And then again. He turned, and he saw the man trying again to rev the chainsaw. He took a step towards the panicking soldier, who tried again to bring his chainsaw to life. Not a chance. The winter had made the lubricant oil highly viscous, preventing it from starting up. Mikhail stuffed his bayonet into the bastard's chest.

_**BANG!**_

The gunshot echoed throughout the room. "_Ruki vverkh_!" yelled a voice, dominating the room. Mikhail froze, dropping his bayonet as five men grabbed him and another three grabbed Isidora. For a moment he told himself that the five should be over at Isidora's side. She was the more dangerous one. "_Ruki vverkh_!" The voice shouted again in a deep voice from the back of the throat, ruining the beauty of the language. If he wanted to tell him to put up his hands he could have at least done it without butchering the sounds. Mikhail raised his hands, and the men restrained him. Isidora struggled with the men, and the pistol was then pointed at her.

Mikhail looked at Isidora while the men kicked the backs of his knees in an attempt to bring him down. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his legs. Not a chance in hell they were taking him to his knees.

"Fascist pig! Get out of my country!" She spat at the officer's feet, stubbornly resisting the three men trying to get a hold of her.

A more familiar voice – with the same depth and power of the previous one – spoke up. "Do you really have a death wish, Miss Petrova?" Mikhail turned his gaze away from Isidora to the officer. Before he could react, the man standing next to him fell, followed by the one on his right. Both arms were free! He grabbed the one in front and pushed him towards the ones holding onto Idisora. Another bullet took down the fourth man, and he was now free to beat up the last one. More pistol shots went off in the background. Mikhail's heartbeat and his thoughts drowned out everything else as he beat the man into becoming one with the wall. It only took a few moments for the bastard to become another ugly stain.

He turned around, and saw Isidora with her bloodied bayonet in hand, standing over four dead men. The officer brought the smoking pistol to his face, ejecting the empty magazine and putting in a fresh one. He stepped into the light of the fire.

"Commissar Ivanovich!" exclaimed Mikhail. He smiled, delighted to be in the company of someone who now seemed like an old friend. He looked at the commissar, who was dressed as an enemy officer.

"Mikhail, you lucky son of a bitch, you're still alive!" Oleg laughed, patting Mikhail's shoulder, lowering the pistol to his side.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was here to gather information. Now that you've stirred up the hornet's nest we have to get out of here. This is the company casualty collection point and forward command," said Oleg. He turned his head. His ears would have pricked up if he were a cat or some kind of animal. Footsteps. Hundreds of them. "You hear that? We've got to go, now. You pose as my prisoners as we go, so I can get you there safely. I know a way to the Clothing Works. Whatever happens there, use me as your prisoner. To keep it a secret, command did not inform anyone about my presence." Isidora listened, understanding that this was Mikhail's friend, a commissar. She watched him carefully, however. She did not want to trust someone so easily, especially in combat.

Oleg led the way into the building, away from the rest area. They followed him inside, hearing the footfalls above and the crunching of boots at nearly every corner they turned. Through the dark corridors Oleg led them forward. Out into the streets he walked, shivering from the cold. The coat offered little protection from the frigid winter, which was setting in. Soon, daytime temperatures would hit 20 degrees below zero, and at night it would be 50 below zero.

All was going smooth. At certain positions acting as checkpoints, they would walk out first, with him behind and his pistol out. He told those men they were his prisoners, and marched them right by. Without warning they would stab those fools in the back, an advantage that they had over the COG. They could practically walk right back to Soviet lines at this rate, but they would certainly kill them all. Oleg's plan was probably the best for the situation.

They had walked a roundabout way, westwards past the TIK toward the main boat landing areas and train yards.

"What's the overall situation like?" asked Mikhail, looking out for sentries while leaning against a wall. They had been out of touch with command since earlier that day, and he was wondering if the lines had changed much.

"It's not looking very good for us. We're outnumbered 10 to 1. The COG forces are still pulling reinforcements in and they've also got new weapons. It's some kind of automatic grenade launcher that's got minimal recoil. It can also switch to a .50-calibre machinegun in less than two minutes. They also have precision guided munitions now."

"Okay, is that all the bad news?" asked Mikhail with a chuckle.

"Not quite," Oleg replied, smiling to himself. This young man's sarcasm and wit knew no bounds. "The COG have pushed the Twelfth Guards into a very small pocket around the Univermag. Red Square, the road junction and train tracks around the Univermag now make up no man's land. They're being cut off again – another attack on the TIK took place just before you guys came up and disturbed the sleeping hornets. They massed everything they had – mortars, men, IFVs, tanks, serviceable aircraft."

"Serviceable?" asked Isidora. She wondered if he meant what she thought he meant.

"That's right – serviceable. A large portion of their helicopters have broken down due to extremely low operating temperatures at high altitudes. The fuel lines get clogged up because some components of the Imulsion mixture start to solidify. Same thing happens with jet fuel and lubricant oils that they use. Antifreeze and oils for winter use are in short supply on this side. By the time they get those things up and running those already in the air would have been shot down or have to go back for servicing." Mikhail saw Oleg's smiled grow even wider, and felt his own follow suit. "It's logistical hell. They can't keep more than half their aircraft functional, especially at night and at high altitude. Let's see how their 'all-weather' fighters keep up with the Duty NCO and the Night Witches now."

Mikhail stifled his laughter; they could not afford to give away their positions. Especially not when the supposed COG officer was speaking and making jokes in Russian.

"That's both good and bad though. They know this is happening, and they're moving their men in fast and hard on our boys. That's why you're not seeing that many here. They're mostly trying to secure the rest of Kaliningrad without rations. I haven't eaten proper food in days. Mostly scraps," he continued. "And rats."

"Rats? This city's rats?"

"The same rats that feed on the dead bodies in the sewers and everywhere else in this frozen hell," confirmed Oleg. Somehow, it made Mikhail feel a little sick in his stomach, but not by a large margin. Anyone who could get through this without puking at least once had guts made out of steel. "Better than turning cannibal. I've seen some of these men rescued from encirclement start eating the flesh off their dead friends. Sick bastards. Most of these guys here are lice-ridden. Nowhere to shower, and no clean water."

Fortunately for them, they had bunkers dug into the side of the high riverbank overlooking the Shirma River, which were considerably cleaner than the corpse-covered streets of Kaliningrad.

"So what's the good news?"

"The good news is… No news. Except that I know something big is coming. Recon reports I found observe that the Red Army is pulling out supplies and there is a lot of movement on the other bank. I also heard that the Northeast Front has faltered and is in full retreat." This was music to any Soviet soldier's ears. News of victory! "But they're coming over to Kaliningrad. They called it 'advancing in another direction'." Oleg felt himself smiling again, as they walked on.

"Here we are," said Oleg at last. "No man's land." They peered across the roads and train tracks. "At least, that's where it was previously. I don't know if they've already captured the positions in front." He pointed to the general area in front of them, in the darkness.

"That's one of the minefields that we mined," stated Isidora, pulling out her rifle. She quietly slid the bayonet back onto it, and Mikhail did the same. If there was any time to use the rifle, it was now. No need for stealth after they got back to their own lines. "Is this the way back you were talking about?"

"Exactly – look there. COG bodies and blood mark the way. It's twenty metres to the other side." Oleg shed the winter coat, throwing it aside. The thick garment, while fancy and comfortable, would only weigh him down if he had to run. He got on the ground, creeping across. "Stay out of the light."

Mikhail and Isidora nodded. "You go, Kapitan. We'll follow," said Oleg. "You know the minefield best." Without another word Isidora got on the ground, rifle in her arms as she crept across the ground inch by inch. Oleg was only a metre behind her, and Mikhail followed a metre behind him.

"Disgusting," commented Oleg to himself, crawling through the line of bodies. He crept through the blood-soaked soil, turning the front of the grey uniform that he was wearing a dark red. Some of this blood was still fresh. The COG had probably recently attempted another attack. He looked up, and he saw no Soviet weapons firing. It was either a stalemate with neither side having the strength or ammunition to carry on fighting, or both sides were planning some surprise attack. He hoped they would not be caught in the middle of it. With a knife, he poked any clean ground in front of him repeatedly to check for mines. He hoped that Isidora remembered where the mines were placed. Large holes in the road and ground marked the spots where mines had gone off.

"Don't worry. There are no mines here," she hissed. "They set them all off."

"I hope so," said Oleg, crawling out of the line of bodies and the bloodied ground. Isidora crept forward a little more and rose to a crouch. She peered around the dirty low wall of the destroyed shophouse, and down the pock-marked road. She could not see very much in the darkness, but some fires still going indicated no signs of the enemy. Snow had either melted or been blasted aside in the heavy shelling, revealing the holes in the roads and pavements.

"Looks clear." Mikhail and Oleg formed up behind her, both crouching and following her around the shophouse. They kept their weapons up, moving as quickly as possible while making as little noise as they could. "Okay. We're through."

"Let's hurry up to the factories," said Oleg, patting Isidora on the shoulder. "Come."

"Yes, let's go," she agreed. She took a step forward, checking left and right as Oleg stepped in front of her with his back to her rifle.

"I am now your prisoner," he said, holstering his pistol and putting his hands up. "Let's go." All was quiet, and Oleg stepped forward.

"_Feindliche infanterie_!_ Feuer_!_ Feuer_!"

"Shit!" exclaimed Oleg, dropping low and covering his head with his hands. Mikhail and Isidora looked around, and saw muzzle flashes to the right. They took cover behind the wall. Streams of bullets filled the corridor between two mounds of debris by the roadside, preventing them from moving.

"I have only one magazine!" shouted Isidora, firing around the corner. "No grenades?"

"No! No grenades!"

"Shit!" she exclaimed, returning to the wall. There was very little to hide behind; the remnants of the walls were all that was left of the shelled-out building.

"We need to find another way around!"

"There is no other way! It's all mined and those guns have this road covered! We're dead if we don't get past them!" snapped Isidora. Parts of the wall came down, cut to pieces by a large-calibre machinegun.

_**BANG**_**!**

The machinegun fell silent.

_**BANG**_**!**

Another gun stopped firing. A moment later all the weapons stopped.

"What are you waiting for? MOVE! I will cover you!" exclaimed a loud and powerful voice that seemed to come from all around. Without further hesitation, Isidora, Oleg and Mikhail raced across the road, sprinting for their lives.

Ahead they saw a group of COG infantry come from around the corner. Obviously that was not the way to go – enemy territory was to their right now, from their observations. They slowed for a moment, unsure of whether to stop or keep running.

_**BANG**_**!**

The rifle report cracked and echoed throughout the city of Kaliningrad, fading into the distance. A COG soldier's neck split in two, and his head rolled on the ground.

"Keep moving! Turn left!"

As if God Himself were speaking to them, they ran for their lives. With the ammunition they had left they covered their retreat, firing short bursts. Oleg contributed with his pistol. The panicked group ran as fast as they could to the left, turning the corner past the row of broken shophouses.

With a great series of roars, machinegun bullets ripped through the cold night air, tracer rounds marking their paths. Mikhail looked up; the tracers were getting closer and closer to Isidora's head. He bumped her aside and shouted.

_**BANG**_**!**

The machinegun stopped, its gunner slumped over the barrel.

"Mikhail!" shouted Isidora, noting the blood on Mikhail's arm. The coat was punctured in the sleeve. "You're wounded!" She regained her footing, and took his arm in her hands.

"I don't think it's that bad. Let's get to the factory first." Isidora nodded, and they all hurried towards the Voroshilov Metal Works, turning right and thus heading north.

**TWO DAYS LATER**

**Voroshilov Metal Works**

Dima Chuikov sighed, listening to his staff officers report to him in his bunker. He had crossed the Shirma River, joining his soldiers in the fight. He wanted to be as close to the front lines as possible, so that he would know better what was going on.

The front lines had shifted again. The COG assaulted the Voroshilov Metal Works over and over again. They called in artillery and precision bombing. They brought in helicopters and tanks, and still they could not even capture the assembly floor, where gun parts were assembled into weapons, and handed out to soldiers waiting to join the fight.

In other cases, at the Automobile Factory, tanks produced were sent out without gun sights, without even painting on their unit numbers and very often with only a few rounds of ammunition. Most of those tanks rolled out right into the fight, killing only a few of the enemy before being destroyed themselves. To counter this, a solution had been quickly developed – to mount an antitank gun on the chassis of an IFV, effectively creating a light, quickly manufactured, cheap yet powerful tank destroyer.

The COG attacked again and again, lobbing grenades over fallen girders and piles of scrap metal. The assembly floor was now the front line of the fighting. Changes in the front line were now measured in inches. Maps were no longer updated, because it was meaningless to keep track of the back-and-forth exchange of territory.

Brutal hand-to-hand fighting took place. This was just one of those days.

"Attack!" shouted Yuri Borisov. He was no more a private. Now he was what they called an Unteroffizier. It was an NCO rank equivalent to a sergeant, placing him in control of a squad of ten men. He was dressed in COG uniform, clothing that he was unaccustomed to. It looked nice, when it was issued to him, but it became filthy sooner than he had expected. Here he was now, fighting against his former comrades on the winning side. "To victory! For the People, we slay these dogs!"

He felt himself tingle with excitement, shouting like a commissar. On the other side it had been the commissars screaming at him. Now it was his turn, to get his revenge on the Soviet bastards who were ruining his life. The COG would win for sure. Any suffering now was temporary, the Fuhrer had assured everyone over the radio broadcasts. Kaliningrad would soon fall, and they would all celebrate the New Year in Svobodny Novgorod.

Here, thousands of kilometres away from the capital city of Geláre, they were fighting for a man they never knew and a land they never lived in. Each was identified as a _Hilfswilliger_ – volunteer. The Soviets came to call these traitors to the Motherland 'Hiwis' for short. No matter. Fighting on this side was so much better than fighting on the other side. No unnecessary sacrifice was demanded, and victory was more than assured. After all, they had 1 million men on this bank, versus the Soviets' 100 000. But somehow, the harder they fought the harder the Soviets fought back.

"Jammed! My Lancer is jammed!" shouted one of his men, Afanasy Klimenov, fumbling with the weapon. He screamed as a Red soldier, screaming and shouting, lunged forward with his bayonet in hand. "Ahhh!" he shouted, revving the chainsaw. It was no use. The weapon would not work.

The Red soldier fell with a clang. A large, squarish metal object appeared in front of Afanasy's face, soaked in blood. "Shovels never jam!" Yuri said as he opened fire on the Red positions. "I am a traitor to the Motherland! Come and take me!"

"You are a traitor to the Motherland!" screamed an angry commissar through his loudhailer. "Comrades! Kill the Hiwis!"

"Comrades of the Red Army! Come join us! We, your brothers, will take care of you and put an end to this foolish fighting together! Come now, for the People!" encouraged Yuri, shouting from behind the rubble pile in the centre of the assembly floor. He could hear that on the other side, weapons were still being tirelessly assembled, check, loaded and handed out.

"Comrades! Russians! **SOVIETS!** Do not listen to this thief's propaganda!" shouted the commissar. "The enemy is short on food, ammunition and water! They are unable to supply their own troops! The enemy is lice-ridden and has no shower facilities or proper toilets! Every day they spend shitting in the open is a day they risk having their balls frozen by General Snow!" Several soldiers laughed hard at this comment. "What is this country, where you cannot shit without fear of frostbite, you ask? This is the Soviet Union! This is the Motherland! We are united, as a people! Traitors, cowards and defeatists will be shot! Such characters do not exist in the Motherland! Die like dogs, you traitors!"

"Bark all you want from behind your wall, _Schwein_!" yelled Yuri, obviously disgruntled. "You are the ones outnumbered 10 to 1! Soon, more reinforcements will come! And then you will see the stupidity of this fighting! You are all doomed!"

"Hahahaha! Reinforcements? You mean the retreating COG army! How nice of you to all gather in one place for us to shoot you! You, traitor – you should know the price of crossing General Snow. The clothing they give you is useless here. Just you wait, little pup. General Snow will claim you soon."

Yuri shook his head. That was enough talk from that gruff voice behind the crudely manufactured loudhailer. It was more of a tapered cone of steel with a handle screwed onto it. He looked above, into the dark, cloudy sky. Snowflakes fell through the open roof.

The commissar was right.

General Snow was coming to town.


	14. God Help The Poor Bloody Infantry

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 13**

Dietrich Rommel stood over the desk at his bunker, which was really the basement one of the buildings at Gumrak Airbase. His staff officers and junior generals stood next to him as well, each dressed in their grey-green uniforms. There was no need for parkas and coats in here; there was power from a field generator powered by Imulsion. It kept them warm in the harsh winter.

In the corner of the room were a wooden coat stand, and a shelf on which to place their hats and other items. The Soviets had left them plenty to work with in their hasty retreat to the city. They made full use of such facilities. With rank came wonderful privileges indeed.

"What is the order of business today?" asked one of his staff.

"The Voroshilov Metal Works – what is the status on that?" he asked back. He needed updates on the situation. The front lines changed on a scale so small that making changes on the maps was pointless.

"Our men are still fighting, Sir. Minimal progress. The _Hilfswilliger_ battalions have been assigned to the worst of the fighting, which is in that factory. Let the _Untermenschen_ kill each other." The general smiled as he said this, using the word used to describe the northerners as 'sub-human', or of an inferior race.

"There will be no mention of race politics in my staff and in my presence," stated Rommel, as a verbal warning to his staff. "The enemy is to be respected even if they are total assholes and barbaric animals."

"Respected? Hah! Look at them! They betray each other and volunteer for the winning side!" The general laughed at the plight of the silly Soviets. Rommel shook his head, a slight smile forming on his face as he took in a deep breath, going back to the topic at hand. He did not want to waste any breath on this arrogant man.

"I want updates. Tell me now," he said. It was an order, not a request. His generals knew this, and came forward with their reports. A hand belonging to General Spielman stretched forward to the TIK, marked on the map.

"Our men have secured the TIK. An armour company has been sent in to reinforce it, but they are under constant enemy bombardment from rockets artillery and long-range howitzers." The hand kept the finger on the map, and slid around a small bulge along the Shirma River. "This little pocket here… is the Twelfth Guards Regiment. There are 3000 men there defending that bulge and the landing point for troops. They are heavily armed and defend their positions viciously, like savages. The men have secured the area surrounding it all the way to the KISPECS. We control a four-hundred metre stretch along the Shirma River, but still we are taking fire."

"What's this here?" asked Rommel, pointing his finger at the centre of the city. A red circle sat under his finger, marked as a fortress. "A fortress?"

"Quite so, Sir," added General McLennon. "It's the St. Sofia Cathedral that overlooks a large plaza area that was used as a marketplace. It's of strategic importance – it overlooks a major road junction between two main roads. In more than two weeks of assaults, our men have been unable to penetrate its defences. We've bombed the place over and over again, we've sent tanks, we've sent in every goddamn thing we have but no, nothing is getting through them. We don't know how but after being encircled for a week they are still fighting. They probably receive supplies and reinforcement through the platoons that sneak through our lines. We lost a number of convoys to their surprise attacks, and our men no longer have the strength to fight them. We need more supplies, or we will be unable to bring them a proper fight."

"You are right, but everyone here is starving. We need to wait a while more. Another shipment is due to arrive this evening by train with a thousand tons and another trainload full of soldiers. Command has sent in a few more rifle divisions by air as well," added yet another general.

"All right. What about the mountain, Hill 333? Last I heard the enemy was mounting an assault on it," said Rommel.

"Yes. The Soviets broke through our lines here." Spielman again marked the map with his finger, drawing an invisible line across the blue mass that represented their lines, right to the hill that stood so near the river, as if to split the city into two. "They massed their men and moved in before dawn, under cover of darkness. Then they charged… up the mountain."

"Charged?"

"Yes, Sir. They charged. Without weapons."

"It must have been a shtrafbat," said Rommel. The shtrafbat were penal battalions sent to do dirty work that no other unit would do. They had no rights and no privileges. A prisoner had told them that they were given no food and no weapons. They were to acquire those things themselves. They were considered lower than dogs even by the Soviets, and were often employed to clear mines, but not in the sense that the COG did. The Soviets sent them charging into the minefields, marking the path with their bodies and their blood. The penal battalions were also often used to waste precious ammunition that they could no longer afford to throw away. It was a cruel, brutal tactic, but it worked. If the machinegun did not fire, those men would kill the gunners with their bare hands, and then use his gun to fight.

"The enemy has sent them up all morning. The NKVD men are at the base of the hill, acting as both defence and disciplinary committee. The shtrafbat go up, and if they turn back, the NKVD shoot them."

"Cruel, but effective," noted Rommel. "All right. Deploy another division to the mountain. We must hold it at any cost."

"Sir, our men can barely hold on as it is. In our advance to the Shirma we have left our supplies lagging far, far behind. There is no way our men will be able to move."

"Then we will find a way to MAKE them move!" Rommel declared angrily. His uncharacteristic temper had been showing as of late. That position was vital for artillery spotting and for watching Soviet movements on the other bank, and observing the river's flow. "Use all means necessary and at disposal. Bring out men up there."

His men stood silent.

They all knew the situation. The Northeast Front was in total collapse and full retreat. This was disguised by the infamous **Fuhrer Directive 151**, which now included a clause calling for the dedication of all Northern Front forces to the fight in Kaliningrad. They knew what was happening. Unless they could puncture a hole in the Soviet lines and assault Svobodny Novgorod directly soon, they were all doomed.

Rommel had heard the reports as well. He was not in denial, but there was no escape from this reality. Directive 151 demanded the capture of Kaliningrad at any cost, and the total destruction of the Untermensch. Schmidt believed the Soviet troops to be inferior in every way to the well-trained and well-equipped COG forces. He saw flags and he saw statistics, mostly exaggerated in order to procure surpluses – surpluses that were not forthcoming. He did not see the fighting as it was.

Total strength along the Northern Front was now 8 million, including occupational forces. The Soviet southwards advance had flattened an entire Army Group. 2 million men dead, missing or captured. The rest were in retreat, fleeing from the Red advance to Kaliningrad. The idea was now to put all possible strength together and capture the city – if one could even call it a city any longer.

As if conditions were not bad enough, with little food, disease running rampant, inadequate medical staff and increasing mountains of bodies and overflowing field hospitals, the Fuhrer made another demand.

He wanted to capture the remaining factories intact. He wanted to use Kaliningrad as a staging area for further operations in the North, and that would mean not destroying the remaining factories.

What was there left to capture? Many soldiers asked questions of themselves, their comrades and their superiors. Why were they here? What was there here, in this bleak white place? For what were they fighting, risking life and limb for? For the Fatherland, many said. For the Fatherland. For the Fuhrer. For the People.

_Für das Vaterland_.

These three words rang in the head of Sergeant Lucas Mancini. He sat rubbing his gloved hands together. He had looted these half-finger gloves from the body of a dead Red. They caused rashes on his hands, but they worked much better than the leather gloves he had been issued. He had dumped his nonessential equipment for Soviet ones, such as his gloves. He had had to change into the parka that the army provided. It was a fresh change of clothing, but it left him freezing in the northern winter.

The snow fell harder and harder with each passing day. Every day seemed colder than the last. But at least, now there was music.

The Soviets were singing.

From across the street, he could hear them singing as one. He recognised the words from a Russian classic… _Katyusha_, they called it. It was the diminutive form of a Russian name, probably Katrina, or something along those lines. The song, he knew, was about a girl, walking along a river bank and singing a song about the Motherland, and her true love, a soldier who was on some faraway border protecting Her.

For days he had heard them sing. Their voices, in unison, were powerful, and he had to admit, they were also beautiful. These men could sing like a choir. It was in their blood, and their traditions.

"Damn it, how do you play this song? I just can't figure it out with those voices of theirs… Too many echoes," said a frustrated voice. It belonged to a young and talented man from Geláre, _Gefreiter _Gotthilf Kramer. 'God help Kramer'. How apt. The man was crazy. God only knew why he came here. He had the opportunity to become a famous musician in the Fatherland. A national hero. But he chose to come here, to the Soviet Union. All of places, he chose to go to the Northern Front. With his harmonica, too. His accordion and guitar were in storage, back at Gumrak airbase. There was no time or place for music now, but… there was a lull in the fighting.

"Why don't you go ask them?" asked Lucas with a smile, leaning against the broken wall. A pile of debris formed his bed and pillow. The mount of dirt actually felt more comfortable than the cold, chilly floor. He pulled his hand across his black, dirty and bearded face, as if trying to wipe away the grime. It did no good. He also noticed that his hair had grown a lot. Some of it would reach past his nose if he pulled it down.

"Great idea!" The soldier put down his weapon and ran downstairs.

"Gotthilf!" hissed Lucas, rising a little. It was too late; he was already out of sight. He shook his head with a slight grin to himself. God help Kramer.

Gotthilf crawled through the opening blasted into the wall. Snow covered no man's land now, and was falling all over Kaliningrad. The singing continued as he crawled across, waving in his hands a white rag. "_Nye strelyayu_!" he shouted. It was one of the few phrases that Lucas had taught them to say, meaning 'Don't shoot!'. He rested on his knees and looked up at the building with his hands in the air. "What are the notes for the song you're singing?"

"_Ruki vverkh_! _Davai_!" A Soviet soldier shouted, raising his rifle and aiming it out the window at Gotthilf. He looked back for a moment, waving someone forward with his left hand,. "_Tovarishch_!_ Protivnik govorit_! _Ya nye ponimayu_!" Hurried footsteps were heard, followed thereafter by the dull thud of someone's field pack against the floor.

"Fascist! Welcome to Kaliningrad! How may we kill you today?" The Soviet man shouted in heavily accented German. Goodness, how could their language possibly be so badly articulated? It sounded like someone had taken the words, ground them into powder and was letting them drift and swirl around in the air.

"I'd like the notes for the song you just sang! I want to play it!" Gotthilf smiled like an artist waiting for the paint to flow from his fingers onto his canvas.

"_Tovarishch moi_! _Protivnik hochet kopirovat' nas_! _Pyesnyu_!" A great round of laughter went through the ruined structure. Gotthilf, in the middle of all the snow and cold, shivered as he waited for their response. When the laughter stopped, the singing started. Again, as one voice, the Soviets sang. They seemed to be making a mockery of him, and he was not in the least amused.

"What are the damn notes for the song?" He paused there, still on his knees. A minute later a paper aeroplane glided out the window, and smacked Gotthilf in the face. "Okay… Oh! So that's it… I was wondering why…"

"Kramer, get back in here!" shouted Lucas. Gotthilf looked up at the building, and then at the Soviet building. It was now bristling with machineguns and assault rifles.

"Oh shiiit!" said Gotthilf, getting to his feet. One assault rifle opened fire, following him as he ran into the building. Grey dust and dirt, and shards of concrete, rose into the air as the bullets chased him inside the building, barely missing him each time. Laughter followed soon after.

"Kramer, you clown!" Lucas scolded him. "There's no time for this. You! Get that grenade launcher ready! We're taking them out!"

"Comrades! They are going to use the grenade launcher! Suppress the bastards!" A dozen rifles and two machineguns opened up from the Soviet side, pounding the walls and tearing large holes in them. Bricks fell down in halves and quarters, red and grey dust filling the air. "Die, you sons of bitches!"

"Here we go again…" said Lucas, rolling his eyes. Gotthilf, meanwhile, was busy looking through the crumpled, yellowed paper note with the notes for the song written on it. He was unscathed, and too absorbed in the musical world to bother with the fight.

How he had survived this long, only God knew.

God help Kramer indeed.

**St. Sofia Cathedral**

A man stood before the huge crucifix in the centre of the cathedral's Sanctuary, hands together in prayer. Its gold finishing was ruined, scraped off by bullets and shrapnel, and stained by the dirt and dust falling from the ceiling. It was quiet, except for the sound of men moving around and checking for enemy activity.

They called him The Priest, because he seemed to be the holiest of holies among them. He prayed when he was not fighting or sleeping. He prayed over the wounded and over the dead. The Priest himself never seemed to get very badly wounded, and from the beginning of the siege he had already been there. In fact, he was the one who proposed fortifying the Cathedral in the first place.

It was a place of importance, with a commanding view. The enemy could strike at them, but they could retaliate. The construction of this building enabled it to resist heavy bombing and repeated shelling. The enemy had apparently chosen to try to capture the building to use a command and supply centre, instead of obliterating it. They would never succeed.

Their solution to being surrounded was simple. They broke the floor in the toilets and carved their way to the sewers, reinforcing the sides with loose pipes and pieces of metal. Through the filthiest of ways, they received their reinforcements and their food. The badly wounded and the dead were taken away through these holes. Any stragglers in the city or those caught in the sewers knew to head to the cathedral. It was far safer than wandering the streets of Kaliningrad under enemy occupation. The fascists would kill anyone they saw, for fear that he was a spy or a partisan. The sewers of Kaliningrad eventually became a city beneath a city - there was much activity below ground, in the filth and putrid water. This prevented the enemy from infiltrating underground, kept their numbers strong and kept the supplies going.

"Priest! The enemy approaches! Two platoons from the west!"

The Priest opened his eyes and left the crucifix, taking hold of his submachine gun. This weapon was another Soviet innovation, designed for close combat and for mass-production. It was lightweight, had a good magazine capacity, and combined a high rate of fire with simplicity and hardiness. This weapon was highly popular, not just within Soviet ranks. COG troops had been seen carrying this weapon as well, because it was more reliable than their fancy weaponry.

The grandeur of the cathedral had been marred by this war. Its towers were badly damaged. There were holes in the walls and in the ceiling. Loose stones and overturned wooden benches were all over the place. Yet this would also prove to be part of their strategy…

"Fire team, west!" shouted The Priest. A platoon of men hurried over with their weapons in hand, their telogreika blackened by the dirt. Their callused, red and sore hands were the result of continuously firing their weapons for hours on end. There was a time when the assault continued for the entire day. The general strategy was to keep the enemy pinned down in the open, and then lob a grenade over. Sometimes, if they were lucky, the Night Witches would fly the Thanatos over the area and provide some fire support, but this could only happen at night when the enemy's fuel lines were frozen solid.

Because there was only a company of men defending the building, each direction was assigned one platoon to defend it from the bottom to the roof. The remaining men would form a fire team, to be called on where they were most needed. The COG were so tired and poorly supplied that they could not mount an offensive together. If they came from all sides at once, they were surely doomed. Most of the time, only a few probing attacks came. The enemy had no idea exactly how many men there were in the cathedral. The whole point now was to mislead them into misreporting their strength.

Snipers hid in corners and shooting cells that they made in the cathedral. They coordinated together to eliminate enemy officers, and then NCOs, moving down the chain of command. With all the sniper activity going on, they had heard that the enemy was handing out field promotions like hot cakes, to maintain the number of officers. Things were starting to look up for them.

"Taking fire!" reported a machine gunner, moving from a small hole in the lower section of the wall. They had cut holes in the walls, to enable more weapons to fire at the enemy at once while exposing as little of themselves as possible.

"Enemy is advancing! Two more platoons!"

"Move two squads from north and south to west! Keep up the fire!" ordered The Priest, climbing up the staircase to the rooftop. Machineguns were spewed fire at the enemy from here, careful to move after every few seconds. Enemy marksmen were watching, just like their own were looking out for enemy gun crews, snipers and officers.

"IFV! Enemy IFV!" reported another soldier, grabbing a Molotov cocktail. He lit the rag and tossed it over the wall. It landed on the ground, shattering and melting the snow, but had no effect on the enemy. "Damn it!"

"Use the rocket!" shouted The Priest. "Fire! Now!" The backblast of the rocket formed a large cone and a trail of whitish-grey smoke as it travelled across the battlefield. It rammed into the turret of the IFV, taking it apart from the inside. "Yes! Good!" He went up to the wall, and opened fire on the enemy infantry approaching. "Keep up the fire; they are walking right into our kill zone!"

Destroyed, burning enemy vehicles littered the roads and the square. The plaza area was to the west, while the main roads ran along the north and east sides. They formed channels through which the enemy infantry had to go through in order to reach the cathedral.

"Two more platoons!" How was this happening? The enemy never came out with this many men. No matter – they would soon take care of them. He stepped through the ankle-high snow, leaving deep footprints that were soon filled up by the collapsing holes.

"Throw your grenades at their flanks!" shouted The Priest, observing that the enemy was spreading out. He wanted to keep them within the killing zones of their guns. "Keep up the fire! Do not worry about ammunition! Drive them back!"

"Enemy tank! Enemy tank! Take cover!"

The Priest turned his head to take a look, spare magazine in hand. A yellow muzzle flash, and a puff of grey smoke, in the blue-white mist. Then came a rumbling and a great explosion, and then the sound of something crumbling. A stone fell at his feet, and a great shadow crept up on him from the side. He looked up.

The top half of the bell tower was coming down.

He shouted, and brought both arms to his face on instinct, unable to run in the heat of the moment. Nobody rushed to his aid, to pull him away.

A loud clang resounded as the bells and bell tower hit the roof of the cathedral. The spiked top half of the tower lay in a hundred pieces, shattered. A huge fog of dust was thrown up into the freezing cold air, refusing to set.

Men looked at the tower, panicked. They looked at each other, each discovering that the other was just as unsure as they. What was going on? They did not hear an angry, loud voice telling them what to do.

The Priest!

He was caught under the tower when it fell. Could he have survived that? Was he dead? What had happened to him? Who would lead them now? What-

There was a cracking, and then a rumble. With a great roar, a six-and-one-half-foot-tall figure covered in grey and black dust stood from the rubble. Stones and dust fell off his body as if he were shedding skin. The men watched in awe as The Priest let go of his submachine gun, letting it rest on the sling that went over his shoulder and across his torso. He bent down, taking in a deep breath, arms wrapping around a large object. He picked up a large stone beam that looked like it weighed at least sixty kilograms.

He brought it up to his shoulder, holding it as if it were a javelin. "You want Kaliningrad?" he yelled. "Here is Kaliningrad!" With a sound much like the gushing of wind through a small gap in the window, the stone beam went over the wall, through the fog of dust and the bullets. It had landed on someone, judging by the panicked screaming and temporary cessation of fire on the enemy side. He stood at the wall, cursing and swearing at the COG troops while beating the dust off his tunic. They could not help but laugh a little. The good old God-blessed, nameless Priest stood at the wall, shaking an angry fist at the enemy as if the bell tower had never fallen. "Fuck you, and fuck your tanks!" His finger stretched out towards the faint profile of the vehicle in the misty air. A great bang and a column of smoke later, the tank was no more.

He looked at his finger, then at the sky. For a moment he was amused by the thought that his finger might have invited the wrath of God upon his enemies.

And then he heard the roar of the Thanatos' Gatling gun. That wonderful sound, the sound of dozens of bullets fired from on high every second, was much like that of a high-speed chainsaw in action. In fact, it sounded more like a running engine than a gun, with its absurdly high rate of fire. It felt like Jesus had returned to the world to set the captives free, and to redeem the souls of men. That was how it felt, when the Night Witches came around to provide support for the men below. They no longer operated exclusively at night – when there was no enemy air cover, they were quickly called in. This was happening more and more often. They were seeing less and less enemy bombers flying overhead every day.

The Priest remained silent as he observed the bullets tearing through the enemy troops. The stone beam stood like a monolith where it had landed. At the base was an ugly red-orange stain, the flattened head of some poor COG soldier. The rest of his body lay in a crater in the plaza, with the arms spread out and lower legs hanging over the mouth of the crater. His feet rested on ground level.

The cold night wind blew, biting away at exposed skin without mercy. He felt the wind through his stubble, and pulled the balaclava down over his head. He was thankful for this piece of equipment. It masked one's face from observation, and protected the face from the elements at the same time. The people of olden days could not possibly have invented anything better for the winter.

As wounded COG soldiers crawled back to their positions trailing blood, The Priest laughed. His men laughed too. Two weeks of continuous assault, and they could not take this place. He wondered why the idiots had not come into the cathedral early on, when the assault on Kaliningrad began. They would never have had the chance to take the building if the enemy had been there first.

No matter. All they had to do was hold out for a while more.

**Voroshilov Metal Works**

There had been a lot of trouble getting the issue with Oleg's presence cleared up. At first he was mistaken for an enemy officer and pulled away for interrogation. Upon discovering that he was an officer who had been behind enemy lines for an extended period of time, he was then pulled away to a detention area, and then finally when Command acknowledged that he was under orders, they let him out. Sometimes they questioned the Soviet system. They sent in their own men, but neglected to inform those whom he was to give the information about his presence. How then were they supposed to get the man and the information back safely?

Mikhail sighed. They had been fighting Hiwis for days. Forward and back, forward and back, the lines changed. Then the Hiwis managed to capture the assembly floor and pushed them back to the other buildings in the factory.

Hiwis that they had captured were treated worse than traitors. They were not shot and killed as had been promised. They were given a worse fate.

These men, and other kinds of prisoners and miscreants in the Red Army, were thrown into penal battalions, known as Shtrafbats. These battalions were not officially listed as part of the Red Army. He had seen NKVD officers herd these men into trucks, driven to the base of Hill 333 and escorted by NKVD cars. There, they would be sent up the hill. They had two choices: Enemy bullets and their own. Thousands of their bodies littered the blackened mountainsides. Their blood froze in the cold of the winter, their bodies stiffening as rigor mortis set in.

He prayed never to become a shtrafnik, as these men were called. Many had been wrongfully labelled as traitors. In fact, Oleg had almost been thrown into a shtrafbat, before higher authority informed the front lines that he was their man. These 'traitors' would defiantly scream "_Za Rodinu_!" as they charged up the mountain together, their bodies piling up in front of enemy machinegun positions. Thousands of penal battalions were employed in the defence of Kaliningrad, mainly employed in counterattacks and suicidal charges. Many were wiped out before they had the chance to kill a single enemy.

Thousands of them died for their Motherland, serving Her to the end. He had heard many stories about the shtrafbat. They were never acknowledged, and buried in huge communal graves together. These graves were never marked, and their deaths were never confirmed. Their families were never informed. It was as if they had never existed at all.

Shivering more from fear than from the cold, Mikhail decided to stop thinking about it. The less he thought about things other than survival, the better.

Then he heard a series of bangs and dull booms that echoed from the east end of the city. That was in the general direction of the Twelfth Guards Regiment, which he had earlier been assigned to. It was not some random shelling – it was focused in that region, and only in that region.

Others turned to look from within their trenches. Through the gray-black clouds, condensation trails followed artillery shells as they punched through the clouds and hit the ground and the city. Dozens of explosions went off every second.

What was going on? Had the enemy received additional supplies for its massive but underfed army? Did they have some kind of new plan? It had to be. The Twelfth Guards had been holding out for a very long time, with occasional reinforcements from across the river, which was now beginning to freeze over. In some areas a thin layer of ice covered it, but not thick enough to walk across just yet.

Mikhail observed in awe as the enemy fire actually intensified. More and more shells fell with every passing moment. It was like the start of the battle, but this looked so much worse. From where they were they could see and hear it happening. A wall of smoke rose over the city's eastern district.

He lowered his head, placing his face in his hands in his sorrow. Good men. They were all good fighters, and good people in their own right. But now he knew.

The Twelfth Guards would soon be overrun.

**Univermag Department Store**

"Enemy tanks! A full platoon!"

"Helicopter! Enemy helicopter!"

"Incoming artillery!"

"Bombers overhead!"

"We've lost contact with the north side of the Shirma!"

"We have our orders, men! Keep it together, you sons of bitches!" screamed Sokolov, throwing his arms into the air. "This is our last stand! There is nowhere left to go! You can stand and fight, or go for a swim in the river!"

Nobody would be stupid enough to do the latter. The undisturbed surface of the Shirma River hid a universe underneath it. Ice floes came down the river, unseen by the world around. Not even a fool would try to cross the river through the water.

Sokolov grabbed his AKS and disengaged the safety mechanism, joining the remaining 1500 rifles in the fight. The rest of his men were dead, or too badly wounded to fight. All of those able to fight, including himself, had been wounded at some point, or were still recovering. Virtually everyone in Kaliningrad had taken a bullet or two, perhaps lost a few limbs. The average life expectancy of a new soldier to the front line was less than 24 hours.

"Kill the fascist sons of bitches!" ordered Sokolov, angrily spraying a few rounds at the building on the opposite side despite the artillery tearing the Univermag apart. "Keep it together, men! This building will hold – or it will be our tomb! The Motherland never forgets!" Even now, he was bringing out his oratory skill to motivate his men into fighting. Now, more than ever, they needed it. "Grenades, comrades! Keep up the fire! Do not stop shooting! We will not be around long enough to run out of bullets!"

Many hated to admit it, but Sokolov was right. Their hearts beat with fear, anticipation, sadness, pain and anger. Where was the Red Army? Where was the glory they were promised for taking up arms against a common enemy? What was all that indoctrination for? Why were they even still here, risking their lives for men they didn't even know?

They had many questions, and no answers. And they would go to their graves without them.

The shelling stopped for a moment. Smoke began to build up; the last barrage had been smoke shells to mask the movements of infantry.

"Comrade! We will try to get the radio working!" his men said, taking the radio apart even under fire. Sokolov did not acknowledge; he was too busy giving the men orders and rallying their spirits. If this was to be their doom, they wanted to go out with a bang. The fascist sons of bitches would remember this for the rest of their lives!

"Comrades! Death comes to us! Death awaits us! But we are not afraid – because whichever hell we go to, we will find the fascists and we will kill them there again! And again! Here, now, we will make them wish they were dead, and then we will make them wish they had never died in the first place. The fascists will never win – not as long as we do not accept defeat! We are Soviets! We never lose – we never accept defeat! As long as we fight, we are victorious! URRAH!"

One last cry. His men shouted with him, tingling with excitement from their heads down to their toes.

"URRAAAAH!"

The COG charged into the building through the smoke. Bullets tore away at the blackened and cracked walls and staircases that had survived the shelling and bombing. Much of the Univermag had been blasted open, exposing everyone in it to the elements. Yet they prevailed, with their supposedly inferior equipment and horrid conditions.

One last fight. Sokolov continued shooting at the enemy coming into the building, before reloading and joining his men in the brutal close-quarters fighting.

Shotguns went off left and right, flooring men and tearing limbs off their bodies with amazing force. Bayonets met chainsaws. Shovels met faces. Feet and hands exchanged blows. All guns fell silent – the fighting for the Univermag was no more a battle of guns. There was no glory, no honour. It was not a fight between men. It was between animals. Savages clubbing each other with their weapons, each brutally destroying the other. Thuds and cracks were heard everywhere.

Bones broke and teeth were shattered. Skulls were split and blood was spilt. Men and women died twisted in grotesque positions and bleeding from places where one should never bleed.

"Comrade Sokolov! The radio works- NGHH!"

Sokolov smashed in a COG soldier's helmet with his bare, bleeding hands. He had shredded his gloves in the fighting. Each punch tore off more skin from his white knuckles. Each punch caused his nails to dig deeper into his palms. He tossed the man aside to join his comrades in the layer of bodies and blood that covered the floor. He picked up his rifle and walked back to where the radio was, and watched as two COG men sliced the radio operator in half.

"You murderers! Monsters!" he exclaimed, bayoneting one of them. He thrust the weapon through the bottom of the chin, through the soft flesh and into the head. The weapon poked out the other end, staining the length of the bayonet with blood.

"Rrrrgh!" the other soldier clubbed Sokolov with his Lancer. The latter brought up his arm to block instinctively. Some of the chainsaw's teeth pierced his skin, embedding into his arm and ripping out flesh. He yelled in such agony that he had never experienced. A chunk was taken out of his forearm as the soldier pulled the Lancer away, tearing out tunic, skin and flesh and liberating a spray of crimson.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Sokolov bashed the bastard's face with his palm again and again. His victim shouted in pain, his nose crushed by the first blow. Without a chance to react and to bring the chainsaw up again, he was at Sokolov's mercy. The latter did not let up.

"Fascist _Schweinhund_!" he yelled as he smashed the skinny, dirty face into the floor. He mounted the soldier's torso, sitting atop him and bashing the struggling fool. "You killed my daughter! She was only six fucking years old, you demons!" With an angered cry to match his twisted, reddened face, he hit the man with his fist again, smashing the skull against the floor.

He rested for a moment, catching his breath. Every time he breathed out, the warm air condensed into a fading mist. It was good. He felt the sweat forming underneath his clothing, adding to the grime and dirt on his unwashed, filthy and lice-ridden body.

He felt himself tense up, and a sharp pain filled his right chest and back. It hurt so much that it went numb soon after. He looked down, seeing a reddened spike protruding from his right breast through his blurred vision. He struggled to catch his breath as what felt like a foot came to his back and pushed him away, retracting the bayonet.

He fell onto the corpse under him. Was this the end, already? To die on the eighth remaining floor of the Univermag, with the snow leaking in through gaping holes in its façade and in the roof. Was this… all?

No.

A pair of white orbs stared at him as his head landed on the floor. He followed the body, which led to a large section of ripped flesh and clothing. Torn fabric and skin clung on still. The other half of the body lay a few inches away, also in the pool of congealing blood.

He remembered the shouting soldier, as he saw the body.

The radio worked.

He crawled. Every movement sent pain through his entire being. His spine and legs tingled as he bled to his death with each passing moment, punctured through the lung by a spike bayonet. Grunting and heaving, panting and breathing, he crossed the few feet to the desk that held the radio. The sounds of brutal hand-to-hand combat in the background faded as his heartbeat filled his head. It was slowing, and he knew this. He gritted his teeth and hauled his arms onto the desk, grabbing hold of the receiver.

"Twelfth Guards…" he reported, breathing rapidly as he clicked on the receiver to send his message. He blinked twice and took in a deep breath, wincing in pain and putting his left hand on the bleeding wound in a futile attempt to stem the crimson tide.

"This is Steel Swarm," reported the user on the other side, using the callsign for the Katyusha artillery regiments.

"Twelfth Guards… overrun. Katyushas… now." He winced again. The pain in his chest was returning, and it was numbing his entire body. He felt like vomiting, and at the same time, he felt like his insides were leaking out through his punctured lung.

"Comrade? You want the Katyusha batteries to fire on your position?"

"Now! Destroy… us!" he said as he slumped over the desk. He sank to the floor, and the receiver dangled over his head from the wire. It swung to and fro like a pendulum as his vision blurred even more.

He could hear it, even from here. The sound of a dozen rockets screaming into the sky, screaming for vengeance, and for justice. Screaming for blood.

He could hear Kalinin's Choir singing.

Singing a hymn to the fallen, a war song for the fighting, and a curse to the enemy.

Sokolov lay where he was, and shut his eyes. He listened to the last song he would ever get to listen to, as the life faded from his body. Even as the close-quarters fighting continued, he knew, peaceful in his death, that if he was going to hell, the fascists would be coming along with him.

Kalinin's Choir continued with their song, sending rocket barrage after rocket barrage across the Shirma River. The Univermag rocked hard. Its battling occupants fell on each other and on the bodies on the ground. The barrage was unrelenting, and indiscriminate.

Decimation could not even describe the aftermath of the song of the Choir. Where the Univermag once stood, nothing stood. In its place was a mound of rubble, and from it rose a huge cloud of dust and smoke.

Men in the trenches along the bank of the Shirma River and on the Northern banks took off their hats and helmets. Mikhail, the lone survivor of the Twelfth Guards, was too broken to react. The crumbling of the building could be heard throughout all of Kaliningrad.

They had taken with them many of the enemy. They went out with a bang. They finished as heroes in Soviet eyes, but on the front lines it was clear.

The Twelfth Guards Regiment was no more.

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**Author's note:** Much of this chapter was conceived with inspiration from the song "Davai Za" by the band Lyube. Check it out on Youtube! Search for "Shtrafbat", it'll be on the first link. Either that, or just "Davai Za". :)


	15. Totenköpfe

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 14**

"Comrade General! The Univermag has fallen! The enemy now have control of 500 metres of the Shirma River!" reported one of Yeremenko's staff officers. The entire office was like a marketplace now. The bunker was completely blanketed in a thick layer of white, fresh snow. Yeremenko pulled his coat closer, shivering a little. The cold seemed to penetrate through the walls even with the fires going in empty fuel drums. Shouts of reports went all over the place.

The plump man walked over toward the desk with the map. The Voroshilov brothers were looking at each other with ashen faces. They looked like their hearts had sunk to their heels. The energy that he had seen in them earlier was no longer present. He saw the markings on the map.

Half of the Voroshilov Metal Works was flattened. Their family legacy, in shambles. An attack that morning, reinforced by armour and helicopters, had pushed the defenders to positions only a hundred or so metres from the river.

The situation was dire. Morale was at an all-time low, despite constant reinforcements, vodka rations and food supplies getting across until now. The river was freezing over, but not yet frozen. Supplies could only be transported over by helicopter, and that was only performed at night. It was much too risky to do it in the day.

Yeremenko put a hand on Fedor's shoulder. The officer looked at his superior, his face black and pale at the same time. It made for a strange combination. The colour was drawn from his face, replace with the black smears of dirt from the bunker.

"I understand you are in turmoil, Fedor. But be strong. The men need us now, more than ever," said Yeremenko. He took in a deep breath and looked at Zhukov, who seemed to be deeply concentrating on the map. He looked much like an eagle circling its prey, ready to swoop down and snatch it away to be feasted on. "Why are we still doing this, holding on to the little beachheads at the riverbank and holding fast? What are we waiting for?"

Yeremenko had asked this of Zhukov many times over the past few days. Each time he had received silence, or a cryptic response. Today would be no different.

"General Snow," Zhukov replied, tapping the side of his chin with his fingers. The rest of his fingers formed a cup around it. "We are holding on well… We just need some time. Our supplies are coming as usual. Don't worry."

"Don't worry? Have you taken a look across the Shirma lately? The smoke cloud over our city looks like a gigantic cross – a tombstone! If we do not do something soon that will be the grave of Dima Chuikov's entire army!" Yeremenko spoke with passion. He liked the young man; he was strong and dedicated. He was a model soldier to the end – this was shown by his insistence on being as close to the fighting as possible.

"Comrade Yeremenko… We at the Stavka are not ignorant," Zhukov said, sighing. "We are not leaving our men to die here while we idle with our feet kicked up holding hot cups of tea in our hands. No. Far from it. Did you hear the reports from the Northeast Front?" Yeremenko shook his head. He had not heard anything about it yet. "The COG forces are in full retreat from the Northeast Front. Our men are fighting them and driving them here – to Kaliningrad."

"As reinforcements? Isn't that a bad thing for us?"

"I've already said more than I should, Comrade. Wait for General Snow. I promise you, things will happen." Zhukov slid on his gloves and walked out of the bunker, leaving Yeremenko with the Voroshilov brothers to stare at the map.

Now, general enemy positions had been updated on the map. In many places, the COG held positions very close to, or along the Shirma River. It was worthy of concern. 100 000 men and women were cornered on the bank of the Shirma, surrounded by a million filthy, lice-ridden, diseased and starving men in the midst of a labyrinth of fallen concrete and rubble.

Prisoners of war had given valuable information. The COG were starving, resorting to eating rats and in some cases, even cannibalism. Cannibals were rounded up and thrown into the COG's own version of the Sthrafbat, called the Strafbattaillon. These men were then used to do work that nobody else wanted to do, such as clearing minefields in the bitter winter.

Along the front, more than half of the COG armour had run out of fuel. Enemy air units were unable to get off the ground because of frozen parts or clogged fuel lines. None of the COG equipment was designed to withstand such unforgiving conditions. The prisoner had related a story of his commanding officer abandoning his power suit in favour of a commissar's coat. The prisoner himself was wearing Soviet-made equipment, with huge COG insignia painted on it.

Speaking of the COG insignia, he had said something that they could not quite understand… COG High Command was sending some kind of special unit, some storm troopers of some sort. He mentioned something about the Death's Heads – the _**Totenköpfe Unit**_. Supposedly, they were some kind of Special Forces unit. Genuine tough guys. The prisoner spoke very highly of them, calling them the Torch Killers. This was with specific reference to the Torchbearers, who ferociously defended sectors of the city near the factories.

He was familiar with the background of the Torchbearers. All of them were former Shtrafniks. They were composed of the survivors of the infamous _**Strafbataillon 666**_. They were the first ones into and the last ones out of every local conflict and civil war. The average casualty rate among penal battalions such as these was 60%. Theirs was 80%. They were employed in the deadliest of conflicts and the most stubborn of defences. Many were offered their freedoms. None accepted – all because of one woman.

Her name was Isidora Petrova.

Yes. Isidora Petrova was once a Shtrafnik. Together with the men in her unit she lived and died.

She had joined the armed forces at a young age. She was 20 years old, fresh out of polytechnic education with a diploma in business administration. Instead of furthering her studies, she went against her father's wishes to become a soldier. She made it into the officer cadets. She slogged her way through to become a Captain. Many times, for her excellence in performing her duties, she was offered promotions. But she made a mistake… and she paid the price.

She was stripped of her rank. She was no longer even a recruit. She was nothing, just cannon fodder. It was like climbing to the top of a ladder and then falling off it, and through the floor to the basement. Here in _**Strafbataillon 666**_, nobody was worth anything to the Coalition of Ordered Governments.

The men in this unit were mostly disgraced officers and officer cadets. There were the odd few who were common soldiers. Each as nameless as the other, they blazed the trail of the COG 'peacekeeping' forces in civil wars. Her blood had been spilt countless times. Equally countless lives were lost. After a while she stopped keeping track.

How she had survived to this point, was anybody's guess.

She wanted to get out of Battalion 666. Everybody wanted to. The penal battalions were not treated like they were made up of humans. She got a break, three years ago. She saw the signs. Something big was coming and it was happening fast. When the Revolution took place and the Reds seized power, she was immediately restored to the rank of Captain.

In the years she spent as a Shtrafnik, she had earned the respect of the whole of Battalion 666. These men were also restored, and Battalion 666 was renamed the 27th Mechanised Infantry Division. All members of Battalion 666 were thereafter called the Torchbearers.

Not very many outside of the military knew about this story. It had spread as legend ever since the Revolution took place. Isidora was of great propaganda value to the Soviet administration. She was a heroine. All her actions were glorified as ideal and heroic. Her experience was invaluable, and had been a major influence in the defenders of Kaliningrad.

Now, more than ever, they had to call upon the power of one woman's image. They had to unite the People as one, to fight against the enemy.

Yeremenko shivered again. He wondered if General Snow, his touch ever cold, was telling him something.

Soon, my child. Soon.

**50 metres from the Shirma River**

"Oleg," Isidora called out to the large man, who turned on his heels with a yellow smile on his grimy face.

"What is it?" he asked, dusting his dirty coat a little. It was new, but in less than an hour it was already as filthy as the city itself. The maroon coat had taken on shades of grey. In his gloved left hand was a dented tin can. The coffee was steaming. It was fresh. If he left it for while it would probably turn into black ice, he mused.

"Where is Mikhail?" she inquired. Oleg raised both eyebrows as he sipped the hot coffee, leaning against the side of the six-foot trench now lined and topped with snow. "I haven't seen him since the Univermag bit the dust."

Oleg felt a smile build on his face. The young lady had wit to match her beauty. He found it quite similar to Mikhail's own humour. He lowered the tin can, relaxing against the side of the trench and sighing. To have a fresh change of clothing, and a warm cup of coffee. Such luxuries in the middle of an intense battle were hard to come by. In response to Isidora's question, he shrugged. "I have no idea. Frankly, I'm more concerned about who that sharpshooter was."

Those were two things they were concerned about. Who was this mysterious man who was helping them, covering them just in the nick of time, every time? Did he know who they were? Was he stalking them? And how was he so accurate, a kill for every shot? Isidora sighed. Too many things going on at once, too much on her mind. First priority, however, was Mikhail.

She went to search for him. She filed past resting and dead men in the trenches. Some of them had so much snow on their bodies that she could not even tell if they were just sleeping, or were dead from the cold. Many men fell asleep in the open and never awoke. General Snow had a strange way of adding souls to his invisible army, riding through the white, frozen steppe to their aid; their long-awaited cavalry.

She made a left, already familiar with the trench as if it were her own home. All around her was a thick bluish-white mist, mixed with the grey and black smoke that still hung overhead. White snowflakes fell, the wind gently – sometimes violently – nudging against them. Sometimes the snow fell so thick and strong that she could not even see where the bunker was. But she knew instinctively. Exact number of steps, exact distance, exact position.

She slid down the slope, walls reinforced with loose timbers. At the bottom of the short ramp she pushed the blanket aside, walking into the dark bunker. It was lit only by an old hurricane lamp that hung in the corner.

"Mikhail?" she called out. She heard some rustling in the corner.

"Oh… Kapitan." He would recognise that voice anywhere. It sounded like an angel, truly, in this hellish and dirty place he now called home. The Univermag was no longer where he belonged. There was nothing there for him, any longer.

"You don't have to call me that. You know my name," she said. She saw Mikhail's outline, drawn out by the yellow-orange light to his left. His coat lay by his side on the floor of the bunker. His tunic seemed to wrap around his body in just the right places. Shoulders, broad chest, waist. He knew he was not built up like an athlete, but he had qualities that she found very… magnetic. He was by no means huge, standing at 5 feet and 9 inches. That meant that they were about the same height.

"I can't call you by name. You are my superior officer," he replied, clearing his throat. He had a lot on his mind, and was unsure how to respond to a lot of things. Thoughts about his dead comrades buried under the Univermag pervaded his thoughts.

"There's no time for that bullshit. This is war, Mikhail."

"You're right. Though 'Kapitan' does roll off the tongue easier than 'Isidora'. Three syllables versus four." She felt a gentle tensing of her facial muscles, like someone was stretching them to the sides and up. A warmth rose in her face. She could just imagine a smug grin upon his blackened face, which was hidden in the darkness. She laughed. He had a way with humour, and he was right.

"Good to see you can still laugh," she stated as she took a seat beside him. "Oleg's on watch outside. We can rest a while." She heard Mikhail heave a sigh of relief.

"Good…" he said, relaxing against the wall of the bunker and shutting his eyes. "I need rest. I haven't been able to sleep." Lots of good men and women had perished in the Univermag. Some of them, good friends who had taken care of him. Now they were nameless faces washed away by the fires of war and the unrelenting tides of history.

Isidora was silent. She nodded, knowing that she could never hope to understand what he was feeling. She knew what it was like when someone else said he understood what you were going through. It was utter bullshit. It was absolutely infuriating! How could anyone who did not fight with you, bleed with you, eat, shit and sleep with you, ever know what it was like?

No.

Never.

Soldiers were never meant to share their experiences on the front line. There were things you saw that you would rather not remember again for the rest of your life. Your best friend blasted into pieces, the deafening roar of artillery shells rocking the world and turning your legs into jelly. There were things that could be talked about, like the endless steppe that seemed to run across the horizon into that white infinity. Some things, however, were best left for history itself to remember. It was too painful for any one human to bear.

"Being a soldier… it's so contradictory," muttered Mikhail. She knew that in his current state of mind, he would probably say anything he wished to say. Disillusionment was common within the ranks of any army, especially during war. "You say you fight for the Motherland… They say that the Motherland remembers. Who remembers the Twelfth Guards Regiment now? Their bodies lie together under a pile of concrete and dust. They die like dogs, without the glory they are promised as heroes."

"You're right, Mikhail," she agreed, leaning against the side of the bunker as well. Slight rumbles indicated light shelling quite a distance away. "You're absolutely right."

"I'm saying things that could get me locked away or put into the shtrafbat," he said, putting a hand to his forehead. He felt unclean all over, right down to his balls. "Why are you agreeing with me?"

"Because it's the truth, Mikhail. It's the cold, hard truth that the higher-ups refuse to portray to the people. We know the truth. That's good enough," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. This was one of those qualities. He did not hide his thoughts or intentions, and he could see things as they were, without putting a spin on things and warping it out of proportion. The way he spoke commanded attention and respect – he spoke like a leader, a real man. The kind of man that the world was presently lacking. That her world was lacking. "You know, you stand out amongst the men I have encountered."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't hide the fact that you find me attractive. You know you're just a soldier in this war, fighting by my side. You don't expect anything out of it," she said. She laid the cards out exactly as they were handed to her. "The first man I was with… was a liar. The next was an asshole. The ones after that, well, they were soldiers who tried to prove their worth for my attention."

"And did they get it?" Mikhail asked, his curiosity piqued.

"No, they got the enemy's attention instead." She grinned widely. Mikhail chuckled, nodding his head repeatedly like a bobblehead that had just been struck. "I can't even count the number of men who got themselves killed trying to get into my pants."

"Very interesting…" He could not help but find this entertaining.

"How many women have you had?" she asked, turning it on him.

"Well, I can't say… It's a matter of principle," he said, scratching the back of his head. "I don't like talking about private affairs like that."

"Good."

Before he could react, he felt something on his chest. Ten slender fingers slid their way up to his face, sliding across his cheeks and taking hold of his head in a gentle cradle.

"What are you doing?" he asked, taken aback. "This is… against regulation." He still did not understand how in the middle of this hell, a woman could smell like roses. He decided that it was probably his mind playing tricks on him.

"Does it matter?" she asked. She did not wait. Born a warrior, live like a warrior. She brought his face to hers. She could feel his warm breath down her neck. Her heartbeat quickened. She ran her fingers past his ears, through his thick hair and under his ushanka. She pushed the hat off, and her lips crushed against his.

The wetness around her dry lips felt like heaven. His arms came around her back, taking hold of her. These were not the arms of a soldier. They were the arms of a lover. She felt his skin. Smooth. She wrapped her arms around him, allowing herself deeper into this passion.

It was progressive, and steady. They flung their upper garments into the corner with the oil lamp. Eyes shut, they explored each other with tender caresses. He shifted to the centre of the bunker. With her in his arms, he lay his back on the dirty ground. She hovered over him, left knee on the ground between his legs, which were entwined around hers. Their shallow breaths clashed. They continued, lip to lip, each exploring the other. She stroked the side of his head. He felt heat in all her extremities – her hands, her face, her neck, her breath, her thighs. He knew this feeling all too well…

His arms reached around her back, travelling upwards with his hands. He felt her skin against his own, from his chest to his arms. Every moment was full of something he could never quite describe. A tingling sensation filled his head. He breathed in deep and heaved out a sigh as she went from his lips to his ear, nibbling on his earlobe.

Their fingers interlocked, and again they joined lips.

The fullness of his lips tempted her over and over again. She was unable to stop herself. Every time she pulled away to catch her breath, a moment later she found herself searching again for those luscious, wet lips. Despite being smaller, Mikhail somehow felt… bigger. More imposing. Even with him underneath she could feel his magnetic presence in her being. Nothing else mattered. Not the enemy, not the war, nor the battle. Not here, not now. That warmth was more important than anything else, more so even than the fighting that seemed so distant…

Isidora felt him. She knew his essence. His touch was tender, his skin smooth. The way he held her spoke of passion unlike anything she had ever experienced. She squeezed his hands, and he squeezed back. She ran a finger across his palm. Still smooth, despite the fighting.

These hands belonged to a lover.

Not a soldier.

**COG Frontline, Voroshilov Metal Works**

"Did you hear?"

"Yeah, I did. The _**Totenköpfe**_ are coming. I hear they're due to arrive soon!"

"Those Reds are dead for sure!"

"Those guys aren't just special forces or storm troopers…"

Muttering went throughout the room. Morale was high, a good sign. Lucas breathed out onto his fingers, for fear that they would turn purple. The weather was getting even colder. He looked at the other soldiers. They had smiles on their faces now, as compared to what they looked like previously. They looked like they had walked straight out of hell. Black, skinny faces grinned yellow grins.

Lucas wanted to laugh at his squad's own predicament, but did not have the strength to do so. He had not eaten any proper food at all for a long time, and water was in short supply. He had finished his canteen two days ago. His throat burned with thirst, demanding to be fed. It felt like something was clawing at the inside of his throat.

Their situation was laughable indeed. They were caught at the frontline, in one of the workers' residences. They occupied the second and third floors. In the basement, there were Soviets. At the top floor, there were Soviets. Across the road, there were Soviets. Behind them were COG men cowering in trenches, fearful of snipers.

Such situations were not uncommon. The battle was no more about a sector of the city. It was no longer about a street, an alleyway or a house. The fighting was now for the next room, or the chair in front of you. Both sides were battered and tired. The Reds got a constant supply of reinforcements and food, rationed well and shared amongst the fighters. On the COG side, however, only now the food had started to arrive.

Conquer and capture in three weeks, they said.

Bullshit.

Several gunshots, with short intervals in between, interrupted the silence. It was like some unspoken law had been passed, stating that there must be violence. It no longer seemed normal to go a few minutes without a few gunshots or an explosion here and there.

"Food! Food!" a proud voice announced. A hissing of 'Ja' went throughout the two floors they occupied. Finally! Food! Excited soldiers hurried over to the man bearing the food in a hot pack on his back. He opened the top, staying low behind a mound of rubble and putting the dirty ladle into the pack.

"Oh, God, mashed potatoes again?" whined Gotthilf, holding the tin can outstretched in his hands. The slight warmth seeped into his fingers from the can, relieving them temporarily of the freezing cold. He breathed in the dry air and out, sighing. The condensation formed a thin film of ice on his thumb, which he quickly rubbed away. "When are we going to get some real food?"

"Just be glad you've got anything to eat," hissed Lucas. He knew better than to ask for much more than a little food. Anything was a blessing right now. He dipped his fingers into the mashed potatoes and gravy. It burned his fingers a little, turning the skin slightly numb. He could care no less. He put the food into his mouth, licking every last bit off his index and middle fingers. No food was to be wasted.

The dryness of the mashed potato and the wet, sour and salty gravy mixed together to form an absolutely repulsive taste and texture. It tickled the back of his throat, and made him feel full. He felt more like vomiting than eating the rest of the food in his can, but he resolved himself to finishing it. If he did not eat, he would not have the strength to fight.

Sick. Disgusting. But filling.

**Gumrak Airbase**

Hauptmann Konrad Eberhardt looked out the window of the cargo plane as it circled over the airbase, on approach to land. He saw the snow falling on the city below, huge white-blue clouds mixed with the huge cross made of smoke. Across the river, the steppe seemed to stretch forever into the distance, masked by the ice fog.

Ice fog was an interesting phenomenon. Ice crystals were suspended in mid-air, much like the water in fog. Except with ice fog, you could walk through it and leave a tunnel through the fog made entirely out of your outline. It made for an interesting children's game.

Only one of the many strange things in the northern lands.

Konrad had been reluctant to come to the North. Even being leader of the _**Totenköpfe**_, sent here by direct order of the Fuhrer, getting sent to the North was like a death sentence. Nobody came back from the North in one piece. If he was, he was probably dead, gone to sleep and didn't wake up.

But he steeled himself, telling himself that they just had to punch a few holes in the factory areas, and the Soviet lines would crumble in on themselves. They had studied the maps and heard the stories. They had even received a warm welcome to hell, a picture taken of a concrete slab with those words written on it.

Some of the men called them Torch Killers. He had heard much about the Torchbearers, under their leader Captain Isidora Petrova, Heroine of the Soviet Union. They defended their objectives to the death. And death was what they were supposed to bring, being Death's Heads. That was perhaps the intention of the politicians, but he had other plans. He did not want to become a show pony for the Fuhrer to parade around. He wanted to get the job done and get the hell out of Kaliningrad.

The plane came to a complete stop, and he stepped out of it into the cold afternoon air. 30 degrees below freezing. He shuddered even in his layers of winter clothing. How did anyone live in this, much less fight? His men followed him out, carrying their packs. Without a word they formed two platoons, heading towards the main building where Rommel had made his headquarters.

They walked past the hangars and the runway. The biting wind blew right into them, as if made of sharp razors with which to skin them alive. They looked as the dead and badly wounded were piled into the aircraft, to be flown back to the Fatherland. No more coffins. They had run out of material for coffins. They simply piled the dead together, prayed that they would not come back to haunt them and off the planes went.

How did it come to this? The COG, while in the more advantageous position, seemed more like they were the losing side, all of them about to collapse and die. They trudged through the ankle-high snow. It looked like a blizzard was about to come their way.

Konrad looked to the right. Air crews sat next to their aircraft, playing games with them. They would place a bare hand onto the cold metal, and the hand would stick right onto it. Their aircraft, with frozen parts and clogged fuel lines, were of no use at all. They all shivered; their equipment was inadequate against the harsh conditions.

The _**Totenköpfe**_ marched into the main building, to applause and celebration. Full of energy and enthusiasm, they observed the soldiers around them. They seemed like walking skeletons clothed in parkas and trousers, mere shells of who they used to be. It looked more like someone had dug into their skin and taken away their flesh, some of them. Blackened with dirt and starved for weeks, they were finally partaking of their first proper meal as the _**Totenköpfe**_ marched in.

Now they understood what the wounded veterans meant when they said that only the dead could still dream of victory. Gumrak Airbase was miles from the fighting. It was already this bad here. What the frontlines were like, they could only imagine.

Konrad took in a deep breath.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

One hell of a lot harder.


	16. The Red Orchestra

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 15**

Hauptmann Konrad Eberhardt sighed. He jumped a few times to keep the blood circulating. Evening temperatures had plummeted to at least 40 degrees below freezing. How the hell did anyone fight in this? It was like walking around in a cold storage area naked.

His men had been quartered in the barracks, and had been given a briefing. Their first operation was to begin in the morning, giving them a night to rest and adapt to the absurdly cold climate.

As if anyone could adapt so quickly.

He paid careful attention to the inhabitants of the base, and also the ever-growing piles of dead and wounded. He took in a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. He had grown curious about the outside, for a moment. Weather reports said that snowstorms were building up, and raging across the open lands. They put layers of snow on the aircraft and vehicles stuck in the open, automatically camouflaging them in the white infinity.

Many trucks and fighting vehicles were frozen so hard that they could not be started. They were still short on antifreeze, and food was being rationed stringently. More shipments were due to arrive, but those would take time. That, and any shipments they had were probably being redirected from the fallen Northeast Front. No food was readily available around here. Air shipments came but not all too often – those resources were needed elsewhere.

He looked at the bodies lined up in rows beside the runway. Many of them were in halves. Many more were missing limbs. In some cases they were nothing more than a collection of loose body parts lumped together, now black and frozen.

"They're good men," a voice said. He turned his head, and saw Field Marshal Dietrich Rommel next to him. He stood a half head taller than he. He looked like he was posing for a portrait or photograph, back straight, heels to the floor and shiny boots sinking into the shin-high snow. "They fought long and hard, to the last bullet and the last breath." Konrad said nothing, instead rubbing his exposed ears to keep them warm. "You might want to get one of the Soviet fur hats. I hear they work better than our winter equipment." Rommel pulled his warm winter coat tight around himself. "Remove the Torch symbol from the top though. You don't want to get mistaken for the enemy."

Konrad laughed, a white grin flashing across his face. It had been a long time since Rommel saw anyone with white teeth. Refreshing, quite literally. "Maybe. What's that in your hand?" The Field Marshal held his hand out, holding the item in question. It was a notebook, the standard one issued to all soldiers. He took it in his hands, and Rommel let it go. He turned around and walked away, probably going to busy himself with more planning. Konrad followed him. The black leather cover was scratched and worn, and many of the smeared white pages were torn in corners from what he could see. He started reading.

Some of the pages were bloodied, now browned. The blood obscured words and some sections of the writing, but the important parts he could see. There were diagrams and hand-drawn maps. This was obviously from the start of the battle, since the front lines were measured in miles. As the pages progressed he saw the patterns in the diagrams and writings change.

_Welcome to Hell… How fitting. This place isn't even a city anymore. No doubt we'll have control of the Shirma River within a few days._

Konrad turned the page.

_I can't wait to go home. We're already at the Shirma River. This vast blue vein that runs through the Soviet Union… Somehow it's beautiful, looking at the endless steppe._

_We've been shelling them for days. How can they still be here?_

Konrad continued through the pages, squinting a little here and there to try and make out the words written in pencil, smudged by the scribbling movement.

_They fight like monsters, and they scream like the devil himself has possessed them…_

_How can they possibly be human? They fight to the last man and the last breath, they're caught here with only a few hundred metres between them and the Shirma River…_

_Savages. They cut open Heinrich and hung him from the transformer pole by his guts. Sick bastards._

_I can't take this anymore. No food and no water, and now the snow is coming. Where is our support? Why aren't we being issued winter clothes? What the fuck does my family pay taxes for?_

_Two months since the fighting began. The more I hear and see in Kaliningrad the more I think that everyone here is crazy. They're crazy to be here. They're crazy to be fighting in this shit._

_The Reds can't be human. The Fuhrer calls them Untermensch. He is only right when he says that they are not human. These men are beasts. They fight like monsters. When they run out of ammunition they come charging straight into our machineguns._

_We spent the entire morning clearing a machinegun emplacement at the street corner on the fifth floor of a building. We filled it with grenades and a full squad went in guns blazing. We only found one body. A one-man fortress. Clever Soviet bastard made us waste all our grenades and so many bullets suppressing the gun. I think we haven't seen the end of it yet._

_Are the legends about Russian strength and vitality true? They must be. Even in this freezing hellhole they fight like it doesn't affect them at all. The other day we tried to take the Cathedral. A tank blew up the bell tower… and someone threw a stone beam like a javelin at us screaming something about Kaliningrad. Poor bastard doesn't even have a face left._

_As I write this I pause after every word, scratching underneath my arms, between my legs and below my skinny back. Fucking lice. I have not had a shower in over a month._

_What is there to conquer here? I want to go home!! I just want to get out of here. This place is not a city. There is no place for us here. Not here._

_Obergefreiter Rick Morrison. May his soul rest in peace. What am I to tell his wife and children? And his mother? That he died a hero, fighting to the last breath? No… There are no heroes. Not here, in the far North. What kind of hero puts a bullet into a man's face from 400 metres away? What kind of a hero dies while taking a dump in the slit trench, thrashing about in his own waste, his body not even realising it is dead?_

_The Fuhrer is proud of us, the radio says. We will celebrate the Winter Solstice in Svobodny Novgorod. Fuck you. We have been at Kaliningrad for 2 months. Few have been allowed leave home. The wounded and the dead are the lucky ones. They can still believe in victory. But we here… We have learned to just survive day to day._

_These monsters have no mercy. They see a big red cross painted against a white circle on the side of a truck, and they blow it to pieces like we just painted a huge bulls-eye on its side for them to shoot at. They kill our wounded without mercy. I saw the Reds encircle a building full of fellow soldiers… They sat there and shot at the building. The occupants shot back. The exchange continued until the occupants ran out of ammunition, raising their hands to surrender. But no. The Soviets shot those who came out into the open. They did not accept that surrender. No mercy, no prisoners. What kind of war is this?_

_These "__**Torchbearers**__"… And their female leader. They have no fear. Or so Comrade Commissar says from across the factory grounds in the other building. We've fought them before. Each time we've retreated. They charge like the bullets don't hit them, and they defend like they turned on god mode and infinite ammo. Even if they didn't, they still have that fucking spike bayonet. Deadly thing stabs so deep you wouldn't survive even if you tried. 12 inches of cold, solid, sharp spike shoved through your body. Hell of a way to die. Stupid chainsaw is useless now. We burn through our batteries trying to keep our hands warm. Hell, we've seen tank and plane crews burn their fuel to keep warm. And where is that antifreeze, damn it?_

_Got my hands on an enemy rifle… These things are a beauty. Great to use. Lighter than our own weapons, foldable and removable spike bayonet, fires a powerful high-calibre round with low recoil and good rate of fire… It doesn't even require much cleaning. The spike bayonet definitely works better than the chainsaw. I'm issuing these to my men as soon as we capture more. As much as I hate to say it, they have superior equipment. Everything the Soviets have is rugged. Made to last, cheap and effective. How the hell did they manage to produce so much of this in such a short time?_

_The __**Emmerich Brothers**__ – we call them the __**Dreadnoughts**__ – are crazy. We were transferred to Hill 333 because the enemy was launching an attack on the mountain and our lines were so thin there. Our lines are thin all around now. We outnumber the enemy by a large margin… But there were only a few platoons defending the Hill. Anyway. About the Emmerichs. Those two madmen, they charged straight into the enemy infantry that were charging uphill. Their suits look like they weigh a ton. And those shields and hammers. How do they carry them? They must be at least 300 – maybe more – pounds of pure muscle, right there. How the hell do they maintain that muscle mass with so little food, cannibalism? Or maybe they get to eat a whole platoon's worth of rations? Bastards should get sent home so we get food to eat! But then again… Without them there would be trouble on some fronts. The sight of those two charging downhill into a hail of bullets sent them running back where they came from! Haha!_

_Shtrafnik. How I hate the word. They're crazy, those sons of bitches. With a yell of 'Za Rodinu' they charge up the mountainside throwing stones, hiding behind bodies and picking up any weapons they can find to fight us back. The Soviets send so many of these sons of bitches up here. At first I thought it was a killing field for us. A shooting gallery. Target practice for newbie snipers, riflemen and machine gunners. But no. It's a Soviet tactic. They're using their men to waste our ammunition. As much of it as possible. If we shoot, we use up bullets. If we don't shoot, the Reds climb into our trenches, get into close combat and start shooting at us. Every day we do this. Every day they gain ground and our numbers get thinner. One day they're going to push us right off this mountain, and we'll all roll downhill together into one big snowball. How's that for a joke?_

_It's amazing how warm this mountain is. This is probably the warmest place in Kaliningrad. There is no snow here now. Soviet shells and rockets fall every day, all day. Our own mortars pummel the sides the Reds are advancing from. The mountainside is under constant bombardment. The soil is churned like a mad cook driving both hands into the wok, pulling it up and dropping the food back down. The soil never gets cold – all the snow melts. But this place… it gets the worst of the fighting. You peek out over the trench wall and you see a field of bodies and body parts in craters coloured red with blood. Go a little higher, and you can see the Shirma River beyond the ruins. Go any higher and you get your head blown off by a Red sni~~~_

It ended abruptly in the middle of a word. Blood was splattered as if something had split open right on top of the book at that page. A line was drawn downward, fading towards the bottom. Konrad flipped a few more times and saw nothing more, only blood that had dried up on the pages. The man had probably been writing 'sniper', until his head was shot from behind. The copper jacket of the bullet would have flattened on impact, taking the rest of the front of the head with it as it went and leaving a gaping hole above the book. It made sense. He looked up, and saw Rommel enter the mess area. "Sir, what's the significance of showing me this?" He asked.

"Just giving you a heads-up straight from the frontline – from a man who fought there, not one of the staff sitting comfortably in his swivel chair back home giving you a general briefing."

He liked Rommel. The way he presented himself was unpretentious; brutally honest in fact. This man was a soldier, not just an officer. He had heard stories about him sharing rations with troops, making sure they had some food even if only meagre rations. He had personally executed an officer who hoarded supplies secretly in a captured Soviet cottage, too. That and he stripped the ranks from an officer for killing civilians in a hospital. Amazing man, this one. He was unlike most of the high-ranking officers around, sitting in their armchairs and pointing at maps while soldiers bled, died and starved at the front. He starved along with them.

Konrad said nothing more to the field marshal. In his mind thoughts about the contents of the notebook grew like seeds germinating in fertile soil. He had not yet fought here at Kaliningrad. He put himself in the dead man's position as he remembered what he read. He felt the deep freeze setting in around him, and imagined himself being dirty, hungry and crazed from lack of sleep and exhaustion.

These were daily things, in the ruins of this city. No more did they fight for sectors or streets. The next target was the next room. And that was exactly where they were heading.

**Voroshilov Metal Works**

"Torch Killers?" asked Oleg. For a moment an image appeared in his mind of a platoon of COG troops carrying fire extinguishers into battle. "What the hell kind of nickname is that? What, did they run out of proper troops and had to use firefighters instead?"

Mikhail chuckled, keeping his voice down as he remained behind the pile of fallen girders and rusted metal chains. Unnecessary attention was not welcome. Especially not when enemy marksmen were watching, this close to the front lines. They had made just a little progress, retaking one of the buildings. The enemy was left holding onto half the assembly floor of the Metal Works. They were too tired, diseased and starved to fight back the _**Torchbearers**_' fierce attack that day.

He looked around. Broken lift systems and chains dangled from the ceiling. They were no longer of any use. It made this place seem more like a prison or dungeon than a factory, with the chains rattling when the wind blew.

"I don't know what they are," said Isidora with a shrug. "Whoever they are, they're just walking to their deaths."

Oleg and Mikhail looked at each other with a nod. Isidora was right. At any moment, anyone could die here. It was as real as it would get – without warning a grenade could come hurtling over a broken wall, or a ricochet might hit someone. There were also times when buildings came crashing down on themselves, killing the occupants as well.

Oleg sighed. He reached into the pocket of his tunic. It felt so much better to wear Soviet clothing than the lousy COG uniform he had had to wear for so long. He pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes, and took one from it. He reached into the back and pulled out a matchbox. Mikhail observed as the commissar struck the match. It made a sharp sound as the end was set aflame, and he put the flame to the end of the cigarette. It caught as well, and he flicked the burning matchstick away, allowing the flame to burn out in the cold. He took in a deep breath with it, savouring the taste of the cigarette.

What a fine cigarette. It had been a while since his last smoke. It felt calming and liberating to finally get a good puff, during a lull in the fighting.

Between his index and middle fingers, he held the cigarette and took it away from his mouth to puff into the air. The grey mist mixed with white as his breath condensed in the cold air. With nothing to do for the moment, they watched Oleg enjoy his cigarette as if it was the most interesting thing they had ever seen.

He raised the cigarette, putting the butt between his lips again. His heart beat fast and his face felt warm, though that was more of a psychological effect than the cigarette's.

He felt for just a moment a tightening in the cigarette. He saw something whiz by his face just as he sucked in. But instead of the smoke, it was cold air. Oleg frowned, feeling the butt snap out of his mouth. He was about to look around when he heard the crack of a rifle ring and echo across, back and forth, in the enclosed area. "Sniper!" he hissed, ducking low behind a heap of scrapped metal. He felt sharp edges jabbing into his clothing and hooking onto it, but he had little choice at this point but to take cover and press in as close as he could into it.

"Where the hell is he?" he asked, raising both eyebrows and rolling his eyes up to take a look. He couldn't see any sign of the sniper. "Do you see him?"

"No, I didn't," said Mikhail. His attention was diverted to something white on the ground by Oleg's foot. He smiled, and Oleg followed his gaze. There, on the ground, his cigarette sat in two pieces, cut three-quarters of the way down.

"Son of a bitch wasted my cigarette," hissed Oleg, clenching his fists and bashing his thigh to release his anger. He felt such rage boiling his blood! The audacious bastard! "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch."

As he spoke the last word of his sentence, the end was punctuated with a loud rifle report, which also cracked and echoed across the assembly floor. It was followed by the whimpers and hisses of the enemy behind the mounds of rest dust and fallen bricks, and some screaming. Then came a loud thud, and the clatter of metal against the chilly concrete floor.

"I don't think you'll get the chance," said Mikhail with a smile. "Look behind you." Oleg took a peek, and saw the body on the floor. The skull was crushed, leaving a big splatter of blood and brain on the floor in the midst of the dirt, machine oil and the bodies of other men. He turned back to look at Mikhail, and Isidora. Their eyes told him that they were thinking the same thing.

It had to be the same man who had helped them before. Comrade Sniper, they nicknamed him, because they knew not his name.

"Comrade Sniper!" Oleg hissed audibly.

"Here," whispered the deep and powerful voice. Oleg looked around. Where was he? "Sergei Medvedev at your service – although I have no rank. Prisoner."

"Ah, from the Gulags… Out of the frying pan, into the oven," acknowledged Oleg. He still couldn't see the man. "Except this oven is freezing cold with a few fires going here and there." He grinned, and Sergei chuckled. All of a sudden, from the floor, two white orbs with black circles in the centre and a yellow half-oval appeared. Oleg was taken aback for a moment, and realised that the face belonged to Oleg.

He looked like he was part of the floor! His coat, gloves, even his face matched the colour of the floor. It was difficult to tell the maroon-brown of his coat from the dust on the floor, especially in the shadows.

"Wait… Are you the one from that day who shouted for us to take cover?" The yellow half-oval widened a little at the sides, almost turning into hooks. A low, short chuckled escaped from behind the smile, and the face bobbed up and down in acknowledgement. Oleg retreated down a staircase, and then rose from his prone position. He moved slowly, like someone was playing a video at a tenth of its normal speed. First he lifted his rifle off the floor, turned it upright and brought it close to his chest, and then pulled back onto his knees starting with his rear, and then straightening his back a little. How he could move like that with a body easily six feet tall and such a muscular build, nobody knew but him. The way he moved, he could easily be mistaken for part of the building, or perhaps even a corpse. "Your shooting is amazing."

"No, it was nothing. I could have done better with a scope," replied Sergei, leaning against the wall of the stairwell leading into the basement. He had been lying right there, at the entrance, and they didn't even know it! "A scope like this one." He pointed to the 4X telescopic pointed-post sight that was now fitted on the hunting rifle, then realised that from where he was, they could not see him.

"Comrade Sniper, why don't you join us?" Isidora asked. "We need a sharpshooter like you – perhaps you could even teach classes for sharpshooters. Urban combat is perfect for this kind of fighting."

Sergei raised both eyebrows, and nodded slowly to himself.

"I don't even have a unit anymore, anyway. Why the hell not?"

**Across No Man's Land, COG Lines**

"Shit!" said Yuri. The body crumpled onto the ground, rifle, pack and all, with a loud thud and a series of cracks to go along with it. "Shit!" he cursed again. He crawled forward, turned the man's bloodied and broken body over, and saw a gaping hole in his chest. "Damn it, we lost our sharpshooter."

"You mean Ernst? Meh, who cares about him?" Afanasy couldn't be bothered at all. The COG man had been a complete, arrogant asshole. He was always looking for a chance to show off his skills in battle. It was never much of a battle, of course. The enemy lines were just 20 metres away, across the open, snow-covered factory floor. The large, almost rectangular hole had formed as a result of bombs and artillery shells hitting the factory. The roof crumbled as the rounds hit, creating a much larger hole thereafter. And now, they lost their only sharpshooter at the front.

"Don't you get it? We're not against regular Soviet troops now," snapped Yuri angrily, dragging Ernst's body over and stripping him of some clothing. He had discovered the hard way that he should not have abandoned his Soviet-made woollen coat and quilted uniform. Especially the boots. He, like many others had done, he cut strips off Ernst's trousers, with which to wrap around his boots. Layer after layer, grey strip after grey strip and rag after rag went around his boots. Those damn things were useless, bad for the winter. Without proper supplies and clothing, these men had to improvise.

"Yeah… those… _**Torchbearers**_, they're on the other side of No Man's Land. But why aren't we attacking?"

"How long has it been since you last ate proper food, three days? Do you have the strength to attack? I don't think they've got proper supplies yet either. You know what it was like while we were over there. Mashed potatoes, potato soup, day in and day out." Afanasy shuddered more from the cold than from the memories, rubbing the coat sleeves to give it a bit more warmth. "But we know them. They can fight. We just have to outlast them, that's all. Soon enough we'll win, and then we can stop this fighting."

"Huh, if only it was so damn easy."

Yuri spotted movement at the back of the lines and brought his Lancer up, stock to his shoulder and leaning back against the fallen, scratched and rusted girder. His eyes darted left and right. Where did that movement come from?

"Keep your eyes open, Afanasy. Could be an enemy group. Everyone, stay alert."

Just then, a platoon travelling in four sections showed themselves. Their elbows were tucked in close to the ribs with their guns in their hands. Heads were held low, covered by helmets and hats with strips of cloth running underneath them around the wearers' heads. Backs were bent low, near to a crouch, feet stepping one in front of another without a word said.

On the front of their helmets and hats they bore the symbol of the _**Totenköpfe**_ unit – the Death's Head. A dulled silver skull with a gear around it.

"It's… it's the _**Totenköpfe**_!" they whispered to each other, making no movement from behind cover. Men smiled to each other, slapping quiet high fives, twisting their arm around the other's arm, and patting each other on the back. Pack up, boys. The experts are here. They'll get it done and we're going home.

Here, in the ruins of the Voroshilov legacy, two elite fighting forces on opposing sides faced each other. A battle of epic proportions between two states demanded an equally epic struggle between individual soldiers.

The _**Totenköpfe**_ group assigned to Kaliningrad totalled 60. The _**Torchbearers**_ were 100, with three platoons of the original group. The 27th Mechanised had been reorganised prior to Kaliningrad, but when the battle reached its peak, pushing them close to the Shirma River, all hell broke loose and many of them were lost. 'Mechanised' now bore no meaning. Very little Soviet armour operated on this side of the Shirma, due to enemy activity and lack of resources. The Automobile Factory continued to churn out tanks at a steady pace, in defiance of the enemy.

Lt. General Dima Chuikov had given the order to assault the Metal Works hard, especially now when the enemy was lacking supplies and experiencing the full force of disease and the winter.

Now was the crucial moment. It was the peak of the fighting, when things began to fall into a pattern – a downward spiral straight into the fiery depths of hell itself.

Here, two forces clashed. Everyone knew they were here, fighting each other amidst the rubble. The _**Totenköpfe**_ had come well-rested and better fed than all of those participating in the Battle of Kaliningrad. But oh, they did not know the terrain. They only saw the maps of pre-war Kaliningrad. Once the fighting began, maps became meaningless. Roads were carved up and destroyed. Entire buildings came down on themselves leaving nothing but the narrow alleys between them. Mountains of rubble formed, and not a single blade of grass or tree leaf remained in this dark city. Death was ever-present. It lurked in the corners. It watched as you took a shit in the slit trench or an old toilet. It waited for you as you slept, to whisk you away into the white-blue infinity of the steppe.

This was the deciding battle – the morale of both forces hinged on this fight.

And it would be a fight to remember.

With no warning whatsoever the earth shook like a titan was taking hold of his toy globe and angrily thrashing it about. Streaks of flame stretched overhead, reaching from the ground up with each explosion. Grenades were tossed to and fro.

"Let's get them, boys! Extinguish those Torches!" shouted Konrad, opening fire with his submachine gun. It was their weapon of choice for this close-quarter fight. Light, powerful and compact. The small magazine was a minor issue – they could reload much faster than an average soldier, even with their eyes closed. "Advance! Suppress, and flank! Use your grenades – all of them!" Gunfire erupted from every corner, nook and cranny. One Soviet man popped out of hiding, uncovering the dumpster and spraying bullets. He was quickly put down.

Grenades went off on both sides, some in the air. Bullets flew about and ricocheted in every possible direction. They pinged off metal surfaces – or got stuck in them.

"Right flank is opening up!" shouted one of Konrad's men, moving forward and opening fire in bursts before ducking behind cover. "Move! Move!" They hurried through the opened channel, taking cover before a machinegun opened up on them. It filled the corridor with hot lead and tracer rounds. "Anyone got a grenade?"

"_Nein_!"

"Fuck this." He grabbed a brick from the ground and hurled it over the broken metal beam. He took another and threw it down the channel between piles of fallen machinery and rubble. "What are you waiting for? Come on!" The others took stones and threw it at the machine gunner, who soon found himself protecting his face and head from incoming sharp and hard objects. When he stopped firing, Konrad put a bullet in his forehead through his helmet.

"Goodnight. Let's move!" The _**Totenköpfe**_ moved swift and hard, covering more ground in two minutes than either the COG or the Soviets had in two days.

_**BANG!**_

One of the _**Totenköpfe**_ stopped dead in his run. A spray of red came out the back of his head, which was flung backwards. His eyes followed in the same direction, showing only whites with his mouth agape. His arms flailed upward, his submachine gun flying out of his open hand and clattering onto the ground. His legs continued for an instant, toecaps sliding across the dirt and concrete as his rear and then his body fell dead on the cold floor. It twitched, still not aware of its death even as the blood pooled underneath his dead head. How appropriate. The first casualty of the _**Totenköpfe**_ – Death's Heads – died by a shot through the head.

"Sniper!" exclaimed Konrad, ducking low. "Einrich, take three men and go left down there. Flush out that sniper! Gottfried, follow with another three. Flank the bitch. Someone pick up his SMG. The rest of you come with me!" Konrad led the way, the two squads heading left.

"Come on, men! The _**Totenköpfe**_ lead the way! Let's free our comrades from their suffering!" shouted Yuri, pumping his fist and running ahead behind cover. Other Hiwis silently followed him through, further into the assembly floor of the factory.

Two more machineguns opened fire from atop the catwalks running above the assembly floor. Tracers marked the paths of bullets as they came and went. More guns fired in the direction of the COG lines – the fighting was taking on another dimension. Probably, another platoon of the _**Totenköpfe**_ was advancing from atop the catwalks. High ground was good, in this case. One could lob grenades and fire upon the enemy with ease.

"Do not let up, men! We're here to win! Kill them all!" Konrad wanted to pump his men full of this energy while they still had it. If they lost momentum, if they let it go, they would never get it back – especially not with the diminishing morale and lack of supplies. If there was any time to win, that was it.

"_Za Rodinuuu_!!"

The last syllable seemed to drag on forever, echoing above all the gunfire. Men broke out of the rubble, swarming into the thick of the fighting. They yelled and screamed in Russian, brandishing weapons of all kinds – entrenching tools, rifles, submachine guns, bayonets and stones. The COG men screamed back in many tongues, mainly German and English.

They clubbed and clobbered the _**Totenköpfe**_ with all their might. The crazed _**Torchbearers**_, their hearts aflame with anger, hatred and battle passion – some would later say madness – attacked without relent.

Much of the gunfire stopped. This fight had become hand-to-hand, and it was exactly what Konrad was worried about. They were losing the initiative with every moment. Quickly, he pulled out the knife he had been issued. Finally, a COG weapon that made sense. His eyes spotted a Red soldier holding a bloodied lump of concrete in his hand and beating the eyeballs out of one of his men, who was kicking wildly in the dirt in a desperate and futile attempt to get free.

With one stroke he sliced open the bastard's throat. With another he lopped off his head and flung it back at the Soviets. The spray of blood – still warm and viscous – met his face and coloured it red. He spat out the blood that had jumped into his mouth, momentarily concerned about some strange foreign disease. With a kick, he pushed away the body from the now blind and battered soldier. He could not help this man now – not at this point in the battle.

More Reds. More raving madmen charging into the fray without a second thought. The book was right. These men either had no fear or were completely insane. "Attack! Attack!" he shouted, struggling against the united voices of dozens of Soviet soldiers.

Yuri watched as Konrad plunged his bayonet into body after body, taking them on almost with ease. He took a few blows, but his comrades quickly came to his aid. Even amidst the chaos of the brutal hand-to-hand fighting the _**Totenköpfe**_ had a kind of grace and order. When one took a hit another would come to help. He was in awe for just a few moments, watching them fight as one against the onslaught of the feared _**Torchbearers**_.

They were pushed back. One by one the _**Totenköpfe**_ began to fall, succumbing to the hand-to-hand fighting. For each of theirs who died, they took two of the _**Torchbearers**_. A pretty fair trade, even a little tipped in their favour. But they were losing ground fast, and the _**Torchbearers**_ were not the only combatants present. Other Red troops flooded into the factory as well. Eventually the completely lost control of the assembly floor.

The fighting continued outside, in hand-to-hand combat. Awed soldiers could only watch the brutal fighting as it took place right before their eyes between two elite units. If there were a coliseum in Kaliningrad, this would have been so much more poetic. Elites, fighting like gladiators in front of a crowd of savages. Some kind of unspoken agreement went around. No interference, the air said. It whispered into every soldier's ears. Let them fight it out. Let them bleed each other to death. Let the slaughter begin.

And then his blade clashed with a silver-coloured spike. He looked at the hand holding onto it as they reached a deadlock, matching strength with strength. He had to be careful. One slip off the delicate balance of his blade against the tapered spike, and his blade would run to the side. Potentially, he could lose balance and fall onto the spike, or it could then break lose with all that force behind it and plunge into his throat. He did not want a foot-long piece of sharpened steel spike through his skull. Not here, not now.

He paid attention to the details, in a fraction of a second. The fingers were slender, though gloved. He could tell that the hands were quite small. The forearm was proportionate to the hand, as was… was that a curve in the tunic? A woman's…

A woman?

He looked up at his opponent.

Hauptmann Konrad Eberhardt stood face-to-face, one-on-one against Kapitan Isidora Petrova.

"_Segodnya ty umiraetye_!" she shouted into his face, giving him a strong kick to the abdomen. She followed swiftly with a forward thrust. It came so quickly that he barely had time to turn away! It cut into his facial skin, tearing it and liberating blood. He grunted in pain. He felt the cold steel in contact with his ear; it had barely missed it. So great was the speed and force of the attack that the pain had now numbed the right side of his face. Either that, or it was the adrenaline. Either way, he was sure the pain would come back later.

If he was still alive.

He understood what she said.

Today you die!

Not today, bitch. Not today.

He watched her retract the weapon in a split second. He could imagine this woman – this beauty – dressed in men's clothing of cultures from long ago, poised with a rapier at the ready in a duel to the death. She moved with speed and finesse, but behind that lay a kind of passionate power. That strike she had landed on him pulled from the depths of his being a kind of flame he did not know existed in him. He felt like he knew this kind of character, almost immediately.

In another life, they might have even been lovers.

But not today.

At once Konrad knew his problem. He did not have range, but she did. He had raw power in the stubbier, broader and thicker bayonet. She probably had eight or nine inches of spike, excluding the three or four that her hand covered. He, on the other had, had a six-inch bayonet blade. The difference might seem small on paper, but in the thick of it, every advantage counted – and she had it. Smaller, lighter, faster, longer range and good power.

Faced with this problem, he had to make do with what he had – his size and height. Longer legs, more mass, greater inertia and thus more powerful strikes. That was what he had to depend on, here and now. These thoughts transmitted themselves into his head in a matter of two seconds.

He lunged forward with a diagonal downward slash, followed by an upward one. She avoided the first and parried the second, smacking his hand with the spike. She used this momentum, parrying to her left and stepping back with her left foot, to send another thrust at him. This one was intended to go through his neck.

He was caught in an awkward position. His right hand with the bayonet was heading upwards when it was smacked aside. His body was moving forward. His left leg was far in front of his right, affecting his balance. At the same time he had to tilt his head left to avoid being stabbed – which he did. It scraped his neck this time, puncturing the cloth wrapped around his head and letting in the cold air that bit away at his exposed flesh.

With little choice left he grabbed onto her, and fell on top of her. Now he did not have to worry about the spike so much. The only lethal point of the spike was its tip. He brought his weapon up above her head. He let go of the bayonet for a moment in its upward motion, turning his hands around to hold the bayonet like one would hold an ice-pick.

He saw it in her eyes, for just a moment.

The fear. It burned into his own eyes, that look of terror. Her features, the tenderness of her skin and eyebrows that hid the ferocity of a tiger, all overwhelmed by that one emotion. With her spike bayonet stuck in the cloth that wrapped around his head loosely, and at such close range, she could not hope to fight him with it.

But there was more. She wasn't going to take this lying down. He felt his balance shift as the hand with the bayonet reached the highest point before stabbing. It shifted forward, throwing him completely off balance. He put both hands on the thin layer of snow above the frozen soil to keep his balance, but he soon found himself on his back. Isidora pinned him down completely. With the positions completely reversed by her Jujutsu, he was helpless.

He tried to stab her with the bayonet, but it missed. He was misjudging distances and timing in his panic. Some kind of special forces, huh?

With her left hand took hold of his right wrist. Using her body weight she pinned it down into the snow. She put her right hand on top of it and then switched hands. Still struggling, punching her with his free hand, he felt his right hand getting closer to his head. Was she going to stab her with it?

Wait, what was she doing? She bent low for a while and… her left arm came underneath his right upper arm to grab her own right wrist from on top, all fingers on the same side. She tucked her elbows in close… And he felt a jerk. A sharp jerk that caused his back to arch as if reaching orgasm. Except this was the height of pain, not of pleasure. His hand opened and his jaw dropped like someone had attached a ton of bricks to it. The bayonet sank into the snow. His face twisted itself into something unimaginable. He could not properly express everything in one go.

With an absolutely sickening series of pops and cracks that came out in an instant, she had dislocated his right shoulder. He screamed. He screamed louder than he had ever expected to hear himself screaming. A numbness now filled where he should have felt his right shoulder. Where the hell was it?

Suddenly the weight was lifted from his abdomen. The spike bayonet was gone too. Probably dropped when they were rolling around. Quick, successive footsteps, cushioned by the crushing of snow, faded away from his ears. Yelping in pain still, he looked around. He struggled onto his knees first. He heard a loud hissing sound, and the more loud hisses. From here he could see a little of the other bank of the Shirma River. Orange cones streaked across the sky, followed by long trails of smoke and condensation. He immediately ducked for cover. One thought ran through his mind at his point.

_Shit._

Yelling in both pain and fear, Konrad shut his eyes. He put an arm down on the snow and his face in it. The world shook again, and again. His ears rang with pain like someone was pounding them with pneumatic drills as the artillery shells went off. He felt himself rise. The weightlessness; the pull of gravity; that sinking feeling dropped into the pit of his stomach as he was flung four metres from where he had lain a moment ago.

Again he was flung.

And again.

Shocked soldiers covered their mouths and watched.

This was a fucking massacre!

Bodies and body parts were added to those already frozen in the snow.

They were flung like rag dolls thrown about in a girl's fit of rage. That was quite appropriate, too. Apparently Katyusha got angry, and started raining rockets on them.

The COG men, in their trenches and hiding in the gutted and blasted-out buildings, watched their last glimmer of hope fly about in the flames and smoke. So shocked were they that those who did not have the sense to duck low in the trenches had large pieces of steel stuck in their foreheads, eye sockets and throats. Some even lost their heads.

Then the roar of the rockets ceased.

Across the new No Man's Land – the area between their trenches and the assembly floor – lay the bodies of the _**Totenköpfe**_ and many of the _**Torchbearers**_.

No sign of Isidora Petrova. Bodies lay on the ground. Some moved, and some did not.

**BANG!**

With a splatter of red and orange a man's head was turned into dust. The snow and black soil was stained crimson.

"They're killing the wounded! What the fuck!"

But this did not matter to Konrad. His body hurt too much now to be bothered by that. He looked at himself and where he lay. He wanted to scream but he could not find his voice. Right forearm. Right lower leg. Left hand. All gone.

Not even one full day in Kaliningrad and here he was, lying in his own blood, not knowing where the hell his body parts had gone.

"Someone go get him!"

"Me! Cover me!"

"Yeah, cover him!"

"I'll go too!"

The men provided some covering fire in short bursts against the door and upper windows, as two men went out to fetch Konrad. He was the closest to their trench, writhing just six metres away. But that was enough distance and time for a Red marksman to pick them off. Those sharpshooters could shoot cups and bread out of your hands at 400 metres without missing a shot.

No shots were fired at them in this time, but the earth rumbled…

The whirring and whining of a turret was clear in the silence and the crumbling of loose bricks. When Kaliningrad was quiet, it was deathly so. If there was no singing, no movement, no combat, nothing, that was the scariest part. Not only could enemy troops be moving into position, but even an explosion far away could be heard.

A Soviet tank rolled into view. Its long gun barrel extended over its hull. Its round turret and low profile, its defining features, were obvious.

"Who's got the antitank rockets?"

"We don't HAVE any AT rockets! Nothing!"

"Molotovs?"

"No! No grenades either! I dunno, we don't have shit here!"

"Oh, fucking great. You two, hurry the hell up!"

The two men were now hovering over Konrad. Their hearts beat with excitement, fear and anticipation. Was this the end for them? To come out and rescue a comrade, only to be ripped to shreds by a tank? They quickly grabbed Konrad by his clothing and dragging him across the freezing snow, causing him to scream at the top of his lungs.

The earth rumbled even more, but not so much from the tank, which had stopped moving. It was about thirty metres away from the trenches. The rumbling was familiar. It was a rumbling that belonged to only two people in existence.

And there, literally their knight in shining armour, was Gerhardt Emmerich. Shield held in front, he knelt low and braced himself as the turret whirred again, obviously acquiring the new target. The machinegun roared to life, spitting bullets and ricocheting off the shield.

"Move, you slugs! Move!"

The two men stopped staring at him in awe and quickly dragged Konrad and disappeared into the trench, leaving trails of red where he was leaking blood. They did not have to wait long for something to happen, although those tense seconds felt more like minutes.

They heard the dull but loud pop of the main tank gun firing. They saw the smoking gun. This day was a clear one, with no fog in their way. They heard the clang.

It was clear enough to see Gerhardt Emmerich fly over the trench as if he weighed nothing. In his shield was a gaping hole, over 120 millimetres wide. The braver ones turned to look at where he had fallen.

Very little was left of the mighty _**Dreadnought**_as they knew him. A large portion of his armour was blasted open, exposing his bloodied, cut-up flesh to the freezing elements. The anti-tank round had penetrated his shield, detonated in front of his armour, destroying much of it.

A loud whoosh was soon followed by a loud boom as the tank's turret rose on a cushion of orange flame. Machineguns roared to life, putting dozens of bullets into the factory's wall as the helicopter gunship descended.

Sieghart bore the grim task of loading his brother onto the helicopter. He had not expected Gerhardt to do that at all – but he probably would have done the same, had he been first. They were supposed to support the _**Totenköpfe**_, but they had arrived from Hill 333 too late. He put Gerhardt on the helicopter. Two men followed soon after with Konrad and some other wounded were quickly packed into it. For some reason the Soviets had not fired on them. This was their break, and they quickly stuffed as many wounded in it as possible.

But here, Sieghart stayed to fight. Whatever happened to Gerhardt, he wanted to carry on the legacy and their sacred duty as protectors of the People. Not the Fuhrer, and not the Fatherland.

The People.

**Hill 333**

Lucas Mancini and his men had been reassigned to the defence of the Height. This position was of utmost importance. It was not to be abandoned at any cost, especially considering that the COG forward HQ was located at the southern base of the mountain.

From here they could see everything that went on, for miles on end. The night had been clear, lasting until dawn. From here they could even see the steppe rolling into the horizon forever, covered in snow and reflecting the moonlight. The early morning, the rising sun cast a blue shade on the sky, the clouds and the snow-covered steppe at the crack of dawn.

This place was… beautiful. Lucas could hardly find the words to describe it in his notebook. Not that he would have been able to write it. He would have had to stop for a few moments after every word to warm his hands up before he could write again.

He was wide awake, earlier than most of his exhausted men. Aside from some explosions and artillery fire, there had not been very much activity on Hill 333 tonight. Perhaps God, indeed, did exist and he was giving them a breather. He had taken the chance to get a full five hours of rest – a luxury in Kaliningrad.

He breathed in the cool air, as if it had something to say to him. Every time he thought this way, it seemed to tell him: Run, child, run. General Snow will be angry if you stay any longer.

The legends in history books and in children's stories seemed to come true in this place they called the Soviet Union. Crazy men fighting hand-to-hand, sacrificing themselves for their Motherland, some even surviving the toppling of a bell tower and hurling a huge stone slab over the wall… Man, these Russians were crazy.

And then it happened.

0530, Kaliningrad time. The middle of the sixth hour of Sera's 26-hour day.

The sky lit up white in an instant, all around the city on the east and the west. Perhaps even the southeast, and southwest. It was not continuous; these were flashes of light that he was seeing. He peeked up over the side of the dugout, safe from enemy sniper activity on this side of the hill. And then he heard it.

Not just the song of Kalinin's Choir.

The wind carried the message very, very clearly as he watched the intense white flashes and heard a sound like infinite, roaring thunder rolling their way. His jaw dropped and his mouth dried quickly. He could not care less – what he was witnessing now was simply indescribable with words. It felt like the morning had come too fast. The sky was bright with flashes and across the open steppe, sound was transmitted with no interference from miles away, bringing the Red Orchestra's music to his ears.

At 0530, 13 000 Soviet artillery pieces fired the opening volley, which would last two hours. The horizon lit up with white and orange flashes. Clouds of smoke drifted through the sky, followed by clouds of titanium. 2000 Soviet winter-equipped aircraft commenced bombardment and air raids. Two armies, numbering 500 000 infantry and 500 tanks each, advanced southeast from the west, and southwest from the east. Like two large arms, they embraced the COG army in Kaliningrad.

General Snow had come at last.

Operation Triton had begun.


	17. And You Thought You Had It Bad

**Gears of War: The Red Horseman**

Revelation 6:4 - "And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword."

**Chapter 16**

The rotors of the helicopter beat wild and strong in the frigid winter air. Out the windows and the cockpit windshield, there was only blue and white, with small patches of green not yet covered in snow.

Following the waypoints on the navigation system was the only sure way to return to one of the airbases – Gumrak and Pitomnik – without getting lost, even on a clear day.

Konrad shuddered, breathing deeply as one of the helicopter crew walked over to the wounded, shaking his head. Aside from the huge _**Dreadnought **_Gerhardt and the helicopter crew… all inside here were wounded members of the _**Totenköpfe**_. Maybe some had still lived to continue fighting without him.

He turned to the right, looking at the man who was laid next to him.

He cringed.

The sight was enough to take his mind off the pain.

He was looking at the left side of a man's brain. That throbbing, bleeding mass of grey matter looked like noodles bunched together and stuffed into the gaping hole in his helmet and skull. Above the rim of the back of the helmet, the gash started. It was a light and shallow groove that widened and lengthened into a rounded hole at the end. It resembled a needle, in that sense. Something must have struck the helmet from in front, taken away the side of the helmet and skull, exposing the brain.

The worst part was that the man was still very much alive. Teeth grinding together, he appeared to be screaming his lungs out while writhing in pain.

Then he realised that he was deaf.

Whether temporary or not, he didn't know. He had heard from veterans, however, that deafness was common when explosions and gunfire were a daily affair. It was often temporary… but after what had happened he wasn't so sure anymore.

He felt miserable. His brain commanded his right arm to move, to grab some part of his body in pain, but no, there was nothing. No response, only the movement of a reddened stub up and down, splashing blood all over the place.

Someone tapped him on the face while grabbing hold of his arm. He couldn't hear the man at all. Either it was the helicopter drowning out the sound or he had really gone deaf. Either way it didn't really make a difference. The person began wrapping cloth around the arm in an effort to stem the flow of blood.

Great, now we've run out of bandages and are reduced to using any rags we can find…

He turned to the left.

Gerhardt was still alive. His chest rose and fell, slightly, but it was moving. He remembered the image of the _**Dreadnought**_. A might defender of the Fatherland, a servant of the People, carrying a massive shield and swinging a hammer. He looked like some kind of cartoon superhero, a defender of justice and judge of evil all in one.

He knew that the man easily weighed 300 pounds without the armour. With it on he was probably a lot heavier than that. It was designed to deflect bullets rather than to absorb impact. There were a lot of smooth and round edges, which also enabled easier rotation of joints. But how they went to the toilet, nobody would ever know.

The front of Gerhardt's suit of armour was practically ripped off. The parts that remained were blackened from the heat of the explosion from the antitank round. Large pieces of shrapnel were stuck in his body, jutting out like pins in a pincushion. Except this pincushion was large, muscular and had the strength to move in a heavy suit of armour without power.

But no, no more.

The mighty _**Dreadnought**_ was now, more than ever, weak and exposed. The black shirt that he wore underneath was shredded in many places. Blood had pooled in the suit and was even beginning to overflow and leak onto the floor. If he didn't get help soon, he would die, by the looks of it.

Then again, who in Kaliningrad had a better chance of survival than the other?

Even they, the special forces, were defeated in just one day.

If he made it out of this war in one piece, he wanted to retire quietly somewhere, away from the fighting and the politics. Even now, without some of his limbs, he knew there would be ways. Medicine was getting more advanced. Surely there would be a way.

Surely.

**Hill 333**

A long line of cars, trucks and IFVs made their way through the snow, escorted by two helicopters flying just a little above them. In the background explosions went off with such intensity that even here, on the mountain a distance from the city itself, they could feel it. The ground rumbled and vibrated beneath their feet and sore, itchy bums. Pillars standing twenty metres high by themselves reminded them of buildings that people had fought and died in.

Buildings that families, just like their own, had lived in. Happy families, taking a stroll in the park and returning to their home at night to the warm fireplace or with the central heating turned up…

That reminded Lucas of when he had walked past the mining settlements near the factories. Good Lord, that place was like a miniature version of Kaliningrad. Of all the houses there, only the brick chimneys for the fireplaces remained. All around them were flattened pieces of bricks and rubble, ground into red dust by tank treads and artillery shells.

This wasn't war. This wasn't combat or civilised warfare anymore. This was barbarism. They treated the Soviets like the _Untermesnchen_**,** dogs and slaves to do their bidding, to feed them grapes, cook and clean the dishes, and clean the shithouse when required. The killing was indiscriminate, and merciless. Blood spilt was blood spilt – but he was disturbed by the fact that there were men who went around killing children and their mothers, some of them with child.

Shivering, rubbing his hands together, he watched the convoy hurry over to the mountain like a line of ants hurrying back to a nest. With so many escorts, it must be someone important, maybe a general, or even the Field Marshal himself. Rumours were spreading throughout the ranks like wildfire, inflaming the hearts of men with emotion. Anger, frustration, sorrow… Many wrote letters that spoke of their feelings and the truth, to their wives and family. It was a desperate call to the rest of the world outside of Kaliningrad, to send some winter clothing or some hams, breads and cheeses. Yes, desperation. It was mostly desperation.

He had heard these rumours too. One shivering, fidgety, lice-ridden soldier was walking in a trance through the snow and biting wind. He was muttering to himself over and over again, "Dead, dead, they're all dead…". And apparently, he had come from far eastern flank. An officer followed after him, and explained that his entire unit had fallen apart under the intense artillery fire. The entire east flank had collapsed in two hours, under heavy and unrelenting bombardment. Those two had run away as quickly as they could, but the shock was too much to take for the young soldier.

The story was that he had only just arrived a few days ago, to reinforce the weak and overstretched east flank. In some places there was only a platoon of infantry defending kilometres of the front line. The rest were devoted to logistics and to the attack on the city. Even if they had more men, it was pointless. There was no food, nothing. The unit mascots that they brought along – rabbits and dogs alike – had already been killed for food.

And so, the Soviets steamrolled over them with relative ease. Very little remained of the east flank's defence line. Only a very small number, less than a dozen, survived out of the thousands that were there. They retreated and gave the Soviets no resistance, gunned down from behind.

Other rumours said that the Soviets were punching holes in the lines and heading southwards to unite with each other, to form a ring around Kaliningrad and the Shirma River. Now there was no way in and no way out, except by air.

Lucas looked into the sky. From this side of the mountain he could still see some of the smoke cloud that hung over the city. It had been here since the start of the battle… It was astounding, how it had managed to burn so long.

He thought about the men in this hole dug into the mountainside, sitting with him huddled and shivering together under thin blankets. There were some Hiwis here, and some raw recruits. Almost everyone from the previous group of replacements had died, gone missing, or was badly wounded enough to get sent home. Poor Comrade Fascist would have to wear half a bra from now on.

It struck terror into him that he was still sitting here, barely wounded at all while his comrades were falling by the dozens. The propaganda speakers blasting from a few kilometres away droned monotonously in lousy German, "Throw down weapons, fascists! Come to us, warm food, clothing and shelter! Your officers and generals send you to death without second thought while they eat cheese and ham sandwiches and grilled sausages. You earn the rest. They have not. Come to us!"

That infernal thing had been playing for days, non-stop. It sounded like it was travelling, because it was fading and returning on a regular basis. Maybe it was mounted on the back of a truck. Whichever the case, it was annoying the hell out of him.

He didn't believe a word of it, though he knew a lot of these things to be true. Somehow, as a proud soldier serving his nation, he could not bring himself to believe anything that they said. He didn't know anymore whether he was in denial or if he didn't believe it. He had taken a stance of complete indifference, after all the death he had seen.

He tried not to get to know the newbies. Most of them died less than 24 hours in. They didn't have the slightest idea about fighting – when to take cover, how to survive day to day, why not to jump over the side of the trench at the slightest provocation… A large number of them fell victim to sniper fire, dying without even knowing it.

But there was still Gotthilf Kramer. God help bloody Kramer. He smiled to himself. That young lad had the luck of the devil! He had a light wound to his forearm from a ricochet, but that was it. He had survived the back-and-forth of the factories, the stinking sewers and cellars, and the impregnable St. Sofia Cathedral. The crazy bastard still had his harmonica with him. It would not be smart to play it now, however – his lips would probably stick to the metal surface of the instrument. He chuckled. The image in his head amused him.

Yuri Borisov lowered his head and put his face in his hands. His heart beat quickly, but at the same time it was sinking lower and lower with each moment. A dark feeling crept onto and all over him.

He and his comrades who had surrendered to the winning side… They would not be treated well. They knew it. They had betrayed the Motherland, sold it out to the invaders. They looked forward to victory, anticipating it with arrogant fervour, but were met with such devastation. Their spirits crumbled, and something inside them clawed at them in an attempt to climb out. It was like a representation of their desire to crawl, or slither out of this encirclement.

He shook wildly, gasping repeatedly for air. Inhalation was sudden and uncontrollable. He was crying, but there were no tears.

Lucas observed the poor man with a shake of his head. Poor Soviet bastard. A _Hilfswilliger_, at that. A lot of these guys were turning up at the hill now with wounds. Crimson-stained bandages were wrapped around his neck and head. He had come from the Voroshilov Metal Works, wounded in the fighting by shrapnel. He had somehow managed to catch a ride on an IFV, and made his way back to the only place with an aid station now – the hill.

The door of a car opened, and from here, near the base of the hill, he could see who it was. And as he predicted, it was Rommel. This was bad news. It meant that the front lines were closing in on Gumrak Airbase – closing in on them.

Lucas blew on his hands to keep them warm, observing the men in the cold, snow-covered dugout. They had been sleeping here, freezing in the open. It seemed that they were always provided with equipment that was never too bad, but never good enough. Wrapping the thin piece of cloth he called a blanket around himself tightly and shivering, he had only one thought on his mind.

_We're fucked._

**South of Kaliningrad**

Tank after tank after tank. Across the open steppe, snow was thrown into the air by the beating rotors of helicopters and the rolling treads of Soviet tanks. Men rode on the sides and backs of the tanks around and behind the turrets in their winter camouflage suits. From afar the vehicles looked like spiders riding on a chassis and treads, with a long appendage on the head.

It had taken three days of shelling and fierce fighting, but finally they were here.

"And here today, south of Kaliningrad, we are now witnessing the beginning of the end for the enemy!" a war correspondent proudly announced, standing against the deep blue background.

With the shortened day, night came quickly. The sky and the steppe were a dark, intense blue shade of blue, separated only by the darkness lingering on the horizon. Little streams of snow were picked up as the wind swept across the plains. Dozens – hundreds of these little wisps of flying snow came and went, appeared and disappeared as the wind blew hard through the Soviet Union, like thousands of souls rising from the dead and congregating somewhere, far, far away.

The woman, in her warm winter coat, turned around and jumped for joy as she witnessed a sight to behold. Hundreds of soldiers ran across the steppe, throwing up snow with each step they took. From little black dots in the distance to large, six-foot-tall figures wrapped in warm coats and fur hats, round cheeks red as roses from vodka, the two armies united here.

Men threw down their rifles and grabbed each other, jumping, shouting and laughing. Many embraced, even if they did not know each other. They were just glad to know that they were here on the winning side, together in the fight against the enemy. Within everyone was planted a warmth, unlike any other.

"This is the turning point – we now surround the enemy in Kaliningrad. Right now, with a live feed as proof, Marshal Zhukov's armies have united south of Kaliningrad, completely encircling the enemy in a ring, sealing their fate. Glory to the Motherland! _Za Rodinu_!_ Za Kalinina_!_ Pobyeda_!" She pumped her fist into the air on live television, broadcast around the world.

Its effects were felt all over Sera. Many nations had different reactions to it. Some sighed out of relief. Some sighed out of indifference. But many cried, for their sons and daughters were caught in what would later come to be called Der Kessel.

The Cauldron.

**COG High Command**

"_Za Rodinu_!_ Za Kalinina_!_ Pobyeda_!"

All eyes were on the screen as the woman pumped her fist, screaming something that they roughly knew to be the less barbaric Soviet battle cry.

"And that, mein Fuhrer… is the broadcast in question," said Hoffman, scratching the back of his neck. He could practically feel the tension sinking into his skin. Schmidt was definitely not pleased with the way the war was going as it was. But to receive such news…

"This is enemy propaganda," he said with absolute finality. His voice cracked open the silence of the room like a man kicking in a door. "It is a lie and is not to be believed."

"But mein Fuhrer, satellite images confirm that the Red Army has indeed encircled our troops in what they call Operation Triton. The entire army is cut off in the encirclement with no supplies and no food. Field Marshal Rommel requests permission to break out, regroup with the other armies and get some supplies, and continue the fight," he replied, doing his best not to push Schmidt's temper. Without Schumacher around, he had problems getting Schmidt to listen to him.

And that was exactly what happened. Schmidt angrily pummelled the table with his palm, his face red with anger and his entire body expressing that emotion. His face was twisted into a snarl, his eyes widened and his voice was raised so high that their ears hurt.

"By God, I will not stand for any attempt to retreat or a show of weakness! How dare you make assumptions that a man cannot fight without adequate supplies? I know very well what you can expect of a desperate man. They will fight long and hard, hard enough to take complete control over the city. Once we have the city, yes, once we have it, we can save Rommel and his army from the encirclement."

"But how will they fight without bullets?"

"Airlift them. Airlift fresh troops in and airlift the wounded out. We have enough aircraft for that." The other generals in the room sighed, scratching their heads. The Fuhrer's orders were irrevocable, but… that was not exactly possible either. How could they adequately supply the entire army with only aircraft?

Hoffman took in a deep breath. What he was going to say next would either be met with fierce rebuke, or… "Mein Fuhrer – what if instead of pulling them out of the city we broke through to them? Would that be satisfactory?"

They waited, eyes darting from side to side as Schmidt rested his chin on his hand, evidently in deep thought. Moments passed, but they seemed ten times longer than they really were. Time had a certain way of letting you know it was passing very, very, very slowly…

"Make it happen."

Schmidt stood up and left the room.

Hoffman looked at the other generals, and heaved a sigh of relief. The tension lifted from his chest as if someone pulled it right out. Finally, a glimmer of hope.

Operation Triton had caused the complete encirclement of the COG troops, cutting them off from supplies except those sent by air. This was news that Schmidt did not want to hear. However, upon hearing that Schmidt was willing to let them break through to Rommel, he felt a lot more comfortable. The Northeast Front had collapsed and was in full retreat still… He feared that there would be more than just one encirclement. In fact, he was quite sure that there would be more than one.

Total strength north of the mountains had dropped to 7 million, inclusive of administrative and logistics staff. A large number of the casualties had come from the fighting in the northeast, and at Kaliningrad. An even larger number had been captured as they retreated. Although the numbers were kept close to a million in the city, it was a massive drain on resources and troops.

But now, with the conquest of Vulcania completed, they had opened up a channel north. They could cut the Reds off there, encircling them as they passed westwards to perform a larger encirclement. This was an interesting turn of events.

Hoffman had decided. Schumacher would lead the attack on Der Kessel. The reserve armies would leave a few battalions as occupation forces, and the rest would go forward to replace the tired and retreating armies. Fresh troops were better than exhausted ones.

He wondered why they had even sent so many men out in the first place. The intention was to overcome the enemy with overwhelming numbers and firepower, but the logistics… it was a nightmare. They could barely provide each soldier with a pair of pants and underwear. Only maybe 20 percent of the troops were actually ready for battle at any time. Most of the occupation forces had at most one magazine of ammunition. The rest was needed at the front. Fuel was constantly in demand, and winter wear and antifreeze had been issued far too late to be useful.

But if they tried, perhaps, there was still hope.

**Undisclosed Location**

"Excellent, Comrades!" exclaimed Kalinin, clapping his hands with a wide grin. "Operation Triton is a massive success. Good. Now we have the enemy trapped in our city, starving and freezing to death like never before."

"A very appropriate name, Triton," said Ilya Molotov with a chuckle. "That's the name of a moon. It has the lowest temperature of all in the entire Solar System, or so they say."

"It definitely sounds a lot better than 'Deep Freeze'," added Timoshenko with a laugh. It would've been interesting if Zhukov were here to join in the humour.

"Now, we let the fascists freeze… But I am certain they will attempt a breakout of some sort," said Kalinin, now more stern. He studied the map again, eyes fixated on the highway through the mountains from Vulcania. "We have encapsulated them in the pocket… but with the fall of Vulcania, the enemy will be able to fight forward and resupply its men. We must cut them off, immediately. The Southeast Front must conduct an attack to cut off the enemy from each other." With his finger, Kalinin drew a line across the map, starting from the Southeast Front position and cutting through the centre of COG-held Soviet territory.

In the celebratory mood, heady with the anticipation of victory, nobody paid serious attention to Kalinin's decision.

It was a decision that would cost many, many lives.

Many lives.

**St. Sofia Cathedral**

A quiet night? No way. Not for the Cathedral. They were under constant machinegun fire and mortar bombardment. This had not changed since the first day they took up their positions here.

They were still the same number, but many men had died or were too badly wounded to fight. New faces came, but nobody remembered them. They tended to die too quickly. The rest were black, brown and red with blood and dirt, fresh and stale. Balaclavas pulled over their heads, the men at the roof trudged through the thick snow to observe enemy movement.

"Enemy attack from all sides! We are completely surrounded!" shouted an infantryman. "Comrade, what do we do?"

"You fight! FIGHT!" shouted the Priest, waving his arms angrily. What were these men thinking? "Open fire! Now! Nikolai, man that machinegun! Vlad! Bring out the antitank weapons!"

"Enemy helicopters! Enemy helicopters!"

Several guns opened fire on the helicopter, hearing only the clang of their bullets ricocheting off the underbellies, sides and cockpits of the aircraft. "All machineguns open fire! Now!" The spooling gun barrels spun at high speed, spitting bullets out thereafter. Light machineguns mounted on the remaining bits of the low walls and fallen pillars joined in, suppressing incoming enemy infantry.

"We have radio contact! It's our girls in the sky!" The Priest hurried over, taking the receiver and putting it to his ear. The sound of enemy helicopters circling overhead and spitting out bullets, sending the snow to and fro with their beating rotors, drowned out everything else.

"Night Witches!"

"Da!"

"You see those ants out there? Crush them!"

"We only have fuel for one pass! Where do you need us?"

"Pick any side! We're surrounded!" He dropped the receiver and ducked behind cover quickly.

Streaks of yellow and orange zipped to and fro, from the helicopters, from men on the ground and on the roof. Gardens of dust, snow and blood – yes, they looked like gardens of sprouting flowers – popped up all around the cathedral. Entire platoons fell at once, their positions raked over by high-calibre Gatling gun fire.

"What are you doing?!" screamed the Priest, smacking two young guns on their helmets. They were supposed to be shooting down the enemy helicopters! "Give me that!" He wrestled from their grip the missile launcher, putting it on his shoulder and training it on one of the helicopters, ignoring the possibility that he might be gunned down. He did not have the time to think about things like these.

A streak of white and grey rushed through the sky, trailing behind the anti-aircraft shoulder-launched missile. The missile crew looked at each other. The helicopter moved sideways, strafing the rooftop with machinegun fire from a distance while the missile continued straight the direction it was launched.

The bewildered duo frowned for a moment, until they saw the streak of smoke change direction. Then their expression changed into one of surprise. It was following the helicopter!

They saw the underbelly explode in a flash of orange. The silver outline of the helicopter turned the same shade, reflecting the orange light as it rotated until it was upside down. It continued downwards, the ground rushing quickly towards its occupants as it crashed on its nose, leaning over and landing upside down, exposing the destroyed underbelly of the aircraft. Smoke and flame stretched out into the cold night air. Freezing COG soldiers huddled behind it for cover and for warmth.

"Hahaha!" the Priest laughed, a big smile drawn across his face. Another helicopter went up in flames as a jet roared overhead. A thin, fading trail in the sky indicated the path of the missile, from above to their position. They silently acknowledged the presence of Soviet air units with a smile.

"Comrades! Enemy reinforcements! They are getting through on the east side!"

"West side too!"

"Keep up the fire! Throw any grenades you have left, now!" the Priest ordered, putting bullets into the fray. He didn't even have to aim. A random burst would kill a few men as it was. He saw a mess of them rushing at the Cathedral… It was like a mad rush for some shelter that was still whole in this collection of rubble.

"Too many! It's the whole fucking army!"

"Keep shooting!" ordered the Priest. His heart beat with both fear and anticipation. It brought his senses to life, giving him legs like springs and reflexes sharper than knives. There was no way they could hold off this many men. There was at least an entire division's worth. Finally, the enemy had focused all its troops on this one objective. "We must go! Keep firing the machineguns! Follow when you're out of ammo! The rest of you, come with me!" The Priest ran downstairs, submachine gun at the ready.

The building rocked, hit by direct mortar fire. His teeth chattered and his legs became like jelly, shaken from top to bottom. He almost rolled down the stairs, but held up his massive body with his free hand, which had shot outwards to rest on the wall.

"Hurry up! Three men from each side, get out of here! Move as I told you to!" He stationed himself behind a few broken benches, some loose stones and a fallen pillar, gun pointed at the door. "We will stay here and cover them as they go!"

Of course, not all of them were willing. Whoever wanted to go could go. Even he did not feel much like staying behind, but he always led by example, never hesitating to do something about a given situation. "Incoming!" shouted one of the men, putting two bursts into the doorway. Enemy bullets came in through holes in the wall, and COG soldiers fell by the dozen as they tried to climb into the cathedral.

There was a large and heavy barricade at the entrance, made from the towering, broken wooden door, the broken pillars and also, enemy corpses. In fact, the area outside was so littered with corpses that it was difficult to approach the Cathedral without getting bogged down trying to squeeze through and climb over the mounds of uncollected bodies.

"Keep shooting!" shouted another man, encouraging his comrades and taking down a COG soldier trying to get close enough to lob a grenade at them.

"That's it! We're all that's left!" reported the men coming down the staircase. Two men left, out of all those who had been upstairs earlier.

"Get out of here! We will cover you!"

"Thank you, Comrade!" The two men ran as fast as their legs would take them, staying low to avoid enemy fire and heading towards the only entrance and exit.

Bullets came and bullets went. The intensity of the fight was astounding.

"Agh!"

"Rrrgh!"

Two men down, the Priest thought to himself. He held in his hands his last magazine of ammunition. "Last mag! I'm out!"

"We're out!"

"Then get out of here!" He stuffed the magazine into the weapon, pulling back the charging handle. He popped out from behind cover, fully intent on using the ammunition well. One shot, one kill.

But oh, no, General Snow would not have it. Go back, Priest. You have done well. His shoulder stung and his whole body shook with the shock of a full-on gunshot. The submachine gun fell out of his hand and onto the floor.

"The Priest is down!"

"Get him out of here! I will take over. Go, comrade, go!" One man grabbed the Priest by the arm and heaved.

"He is too heavy! I need one more man!"

"Come!" another hulk of a man came up to the Priest's body and took hold of him. "We will get you out of here!" He rose, and the two of them took off.

"Comrades, this is our last stand! For the Motherland!!"

"UURRAH!!"

There were only twelve men, but their shouts echoed within the confines of the Cathedral, over the intense gunfire. With their last few rounds, they would give the COG a fight to remember.

"I'm out of ammo!"

"Get out of here – and shut it behind you!"

"But-"

"Just do it!"

The man left without another word, running to the back under a hail of gunfire. Half a minute later an explosion shook the cathedral, giving them the jitters and shivers. Their escape route was completely cut off.

And they did what the COG thought was unthinkable. They threw their empty magazines at the surprised assailants, who curled up defensively for a moment and allowed the objects to bounce off their helmets.

"What's going on here? They're out of ammo, but they won't surrender!"

"I don't know, just kill them all! We don't have time to think about it!" The soldier rose, bringing his rifle to bear and putting his finger on the trigger. The barrel of a submachine gun impacted, punctured and dug through his eye. A flying stone crushed the nose of another. Of course, this time, there were no flying stone beams or pillars.

"Who has the Molotov?"

"Me!"

"Let them have a taste of their own cocktail!"

There was a sound like sandpaper sharply rubbing against sandpaper. An orange trail was made in the air and it disappeared behind the benches and debris, where the Soviets were taking cover. Then there was the sound of shattering glass, and the other end of the cathedral turned orange.

The light reflected off the crucifix, standing where it was as if pitying the poor children screaming and burning before it.

Men, set aflame, rushed out from behind cover to be shot by the enemy. A quick death was better than this.

Anything was better than this.

One stood where he was, arms raised in the air and screaming at the crucifix as he burned.

Where was this 'Almighty God' that people spoke about? Where was His mercy? Where was His deliverance?

Where? Oh, he suffered for the sins of Man, to redeem them. He went through much, a blameless man sentenced to death to protect the future generations.

But here he was, burning before the huge crucifix, looking down at him with pity. At that moment, in his heart sat the familiar feeling of injustice.

If Jesus Christ thought he had it hard back then, he had another thing coming.

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Author's note: No offence to anyone was meant in the final scene of this chapter. Heck, I'm a Christian myself. :P


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